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DREAM    LIFE: 


FABLE    OF    THE    SEASONS. 


■Byy 
DONALD   Gf  MITCHELL. 


We  are  such  stuff 

Aa  dreams  are  made  of;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

Temfei;. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER    AND   COMPANY, 

1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

Charles  Scribner, 

In  tlie  Clerk's  Ofl5ce  of  tlie  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,     CAMBRIDQE  : 

•TEKEOTTPED     AND     PRINTED     BT 

H.   0.   HOOQHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


A  JSrUW  PREFACE. 


nnWELVE  years  ago,  this  autumn,  when  I  had  fin- 
-*-  ished  the  concluding  chapters  of  this  little  book,  I 
wrote  a  letter  of  Dedication  to  "Washington  Irving,  and, 
forwarding  it  by  mail  to  Sunnyside,  begged  his  permis- 
sion to  print  it.  I  think  I  shall  gratify  a  rational  curi- 
osity of  my  readers  (however  much  they  may  condemn 
my  vanity)  if  I  give  his  reply  in  full. 

"My  deak  Sir, — 

"Though  I  have  a  great  disinclination  in  general  to  be 
the  object  of  literary  oblations  and  compliments,  yet  in  the 
present  instance  I  have  enjoyed  your  writings  with  such 
peculiar  relish,  and  been  so  drawn  toward  the  author  by  the 
qualities  of  head  and  heart  evinced  in  them,  that  I  confess 
I  feel  gratified  by  a  dedication,  over-flattering  as  I  may 
deem  it,  which  may  serve  as  an  outward  sign  that  we  are 
cordially  linked  together  in  sympathies  and  friendship. 

"  I  would  only  suggest  that  in  your  dedication  you  would 
omit  the  LL.  D.,  a  learned  dignity  urged  upon  me  very  much 
*  against  the  stomach  of  my  sense,'  and  to  which  I  have  never 
Ijud  claim. 

"  Ever,  my  dear  sir, 

"  Tours,  very  truly, 

"Washington  Irving 

"Sunnyside,  Nov.  1851." 


vi  A   NEW  PREFACE. 

I  had  been  personally  presented  to  Mr.  Irving  for 
the  first  time,  only  a  year  before,  under  the  introduc- 
tion of  my  good  friend,  IVIr.  Clark  (the  veteran  Editor 
of  the  old  Knickerbocker  in  its  palmy  days).  There- 
after I  had  met  him  from  time  to  time,  and  had  paid 
a  charming  visit  to  his  delightful  home  of  Sunnyside. 
But  it  was  after  the  date  of  the  publication  of  this  book, 
and  during  the  summer  of  1852,  that  I  saw  Mr.  Irving 
more  familiarly,  and  came  to  appreciate  more  fully  that 
charming  bonhomie  and  geniality  in  his  character  which 
we  all  recognize  so  constantly  in  his  writings.  And  if 
I  set  down  here  a  few  recollections  of  that  pleasant  in- 
tercourse, they  will,  I  am  sure,  more  than  make  good 
the  place  of  the  old  letter  of  Dedication,  and  will  serve 
to  keep  alive  the  association  I  wish  to  cherish  between 
my  little  book  and  the  name  of  the  distinguished  author 
who  so  kindly  showed  me  his  favor. 

For  the  first  time,  after  many  years,  Mr.  Irving  made 
a  stay  of  a  few  weeks  at  Saratoga,  in  the  summer  of 
1852.  By  good  fortune,  I  chanced  to  occupy  a  room 
upon  the  same  corridor  of  the  hotel,  within  a  few  doors 
of  his,  and  shared  very  many  of  his  early  morning  walks 
to  the  "  Spring."  What  at  once  strvick  me  very  for- 
cibly in  the  course  of  these  walks,  was  the  rare  alertness 
and  minuteness  of  his  observation :  not  a  fair  young 
face  could  dash  past  us  in  its  drapery  of  muslin,  but 
the  eye  of  the  old  gentleman  drank  in  all  its  freshness 


A  NEW  PREFACE.  vii 

and  beauty  with  the  keen  appetite  and  the  grateful 
admiration  of  a  boy ;  not  a  dowager  brushed  past  us 
bedizened  with  finery,  but  he  fastened  the  apparition 
in  my  memory  with  some  piquant  remark,  —  as  the  pin 
of  an  entomologist  fastens  a  gaudy  fly.  No  rheumatic 
old  hero-invalid,  battered  in  long  wars  with  the  doc- 
tors, —  no  droll  marplot  of  a  boy,  could  appear  within 
range,  but  I  could  see  in  the  changeful  expression  of 
my  companion  the  admeasurement  and  quiet  adjust- 
ment of  the  appeal  which  either  made  upon  his  sym- 
pathy or  his  himior.  A  flower,  a  tree,  a  burst  of  music, 
a  country  market-man  hoisted  upon  his  wagon  of  cab- 
bages,—  all  these  by  turns  caught  and  engaged  his 
attention,  however  little  they  might  interrupt  the  flow 
of  his  talk. 

I  ventured  to  ask  on  one  occasion,  if  he  had  de- 
pended solely  upon  his  memory  for  the  thousand  little 
descriptions  of  natural  objects  which  occur  in  his  books. 

"Not  wholly,"  he  replied;  and  went  on  to  tell  me 
it  had  been  his  way,  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  author- 
ship, to  carry  little  tablets  vnth.  him  into  the  country, 
and  whenever  he  saw  a  scene  specially  picturesque, 
—  a  cottage  of  marked  features,  a  noticeable  tree,  any 
picture,  in  short,  which  promised  service  to  him,  — 
to  note  down  its  distinguishing  points,  and  hold  it  in 
reserve. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  one  among  those  small  arts  and 


viii  A   NEW  PREFACE. 

industries  which  a  person  who  writes  much  must  avail 
himself  of:  they  are  equivalent  to  the  little  thumb- 
sketches  from  which  a  painter  makes  up  his  larger 
compositions." 

On  our  way  to  the  church  on  a  certain  Sunday  morn- 
ing, he  tapped  my  shoulder  as  we  entered  the  little 
gate,  and  called  my  attention  to  a  lithe  young  Indian 
girl,  who  had  strolled  down  from  the  campment  on  the 
plains,  and  was  standing  proudly  erect  upon  the  church- 
porch,  with  finger  to  her  lips,  scanning  curiously  the 
worshippers  as  they  passed  in. 

"  Wliat  a  splendid  figure  of  a  woman ! "  said  he . 
"  she  is  puzzling  over  the  extravagances  and  devotions 
of  the  white-faces." 

The  black,  straight  elf-locks,  the  swart  face,  the  great 
wondering  eye,  with  the  gay  blanket,  short  gown  of 
woollen-stufF,  and  brilliant  moccasins,  made  a  striking 
picture  to  be  sure ;  and  I  could  not  help  thinking,  that 
if  the  apparition  had  chanced  upon  him  earlier,  she 
might  have  figured  in  some  story  of  Pokanoket  or  of 
the  Prairies. 

I  took  occasion  one  morning  to  ask  if  he  was  always 
able  to  control  the  "humors  of  writing,"  and  to  put 
himself  resolutely  to  work,  whatever  might  be  the  state 
of  his  feeling. 

"  No,"  he  said,  very  decidedly,  —  "  unfortunately  I 
cannot:  there  are  men  who  do,  I  believe.    I  alivays 


A    NEW  PREFACE.  ix 

envied  them ;  but  there  was  a  period  of  a  month  or 
more,  after  I  had  finally  decided  upon  literary  labors, 
and  had  declined  a  lucrative  position  under  Govern- 
ment, when  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  utterly  bereft  of  all 
the  fancies  I  ever  had;  for  weeks  I  could  do  nothing; 
but  at  last  the  clouds  lifted,  and  I  wrote  off"  the  first 
numbers  of  the  '  Sketch-Book,'  and  dispatched  them  to 
my  good  friends  in  this  country,  to  make  the  most  of. 
I  feared  it  would  not  be  much. 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  continued  he,  "  the  good 
people  do  not  allow  for  these  periods  of  depression; 
if  a  man  does  a  thing  tolerably  well  in  his  happy  moods, 
they  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  always  in  a 
happy  mood." 

I  asked  if  he  had  never  found  relief,  and  a  stimulant 
to  work,  in  the  reading  aloud  of  some  favorite  old 
author. 

"  Often,"  said  he ;  "  and  none  are  more  effective  with 
me  for  this  service  than  the  sacred  writers  ;  I  think  I 
have  waked  a  good  many  sleeping  fancies  by  the  read- 
ing of  a  chapter  in  Isaiah." 

In  answer  to  inquiries  of  mine  in  regard  to  the 
incomplete  state  of  several  of  the  stories  of  "  Wolfert's 
Eoost,"  he  said :  "  Yes,  we  do  not  get  through  all  we 
lay  out  Some  of  those  sketches  had  lain  in  my  mind 
for  a  great  many  years ;  they  made  a  sort  of  garret- 
trumpery,  of  which  I  thought  I  would  make   a  gen- 


X  A  NEW  PREFACE. 

eral  clearance,  leaving  the  odds  and  ends  to  take  care 
of  themselves. 

"  There  was  a  novel  too,  I  once  laid  out,  in  which  an 
English  lad,  being  a  son  of  one  of  the  old  Regicide 
Judges,  was  to  come  over  to  New  England  in  search  of 
his  father :  he  was  to  meet  with  a  throng  of  adventures, 
and  to  arrive  at  length  upon  a  Saturday  night,  in  the 
midst  of  a  terrible  thunder-storm,  at  the  house  of  a 
stern  old  Massachusetts  Puritan,  who  comes  out  to 
answer  to  the  rappings ;  and  by  a  flash  of  lightning 
which  gleams  upon  the  harsh,  iron  visage  of  the  old 
man,  the  son  fancies  he  recognizes  his  father." 

And  as  he  told  it,  the  old  gentleman  wrinkled  his 
brow,  and  tried  to  put  on  the  fierce  look  he  would 
describe. 

"  It 's  all  there  is  of  it,"  said  he.  "  If  you  want  to 
make  a  story,  you  can  furbish  it  up." 

There  were  among  other  notable  people  at  Saratoga, 
during  the  summer  of  which  I  speak,  the  well-known 

Mrs.  Dr.  R ,  of  Philadelphia,  since  deceased,  —  a 

woman  of  great  eccentricities,  but  of  a  wonderfully 
masculine  mind,  and  of  great  cultivation.  It  was  a 
fancy  of  hers  to  give  special,  social  patronage  to  foreign 
artists ;  and  among  those  just  then  at  Saratoga,  and  the 
recipients  of  her  favor,  were  a  distinguished  violinist  — • 
whose  name  I  do  not  now  recall  —  and  the  newly  mar- 
ried Mme.  Alboni.     Mr.  Irving,  in  common  with  her 


A   NEW  PREFACE. 


XI 


other  acquaintances,  she  was  inclined  to  make  con- 
tributory to  her  attentions.  To  this  Mr.  Irving  was  not 
averse,  both  from  his  extreme  love  of  music,  and  his 
kindliness  toward  the  artists  themselves;  yet,  in  his 
own  quiet  way,  I  think  he  fretted  considerably  at  being 
pounced  upon  at  odd  hours  to  give  them  French  talk. 

"  It 's  very  awkward,"  said  he  to  me  one  day ;  "  I 
have  had  large  occasion  for  practice  to  be  sure  ;  but  I 
rather  fancy,  after  all,  our  own  language ;  it 's  heartier 
and  easier." 

He  was  utterly  incapable  of  being  lionized.  Time  and 
again,  under  the  trees  in  the  court  of  the  hotel,  did  I 
hear  him  enter  upon  some  pleasant  story,  lighted  up 
with  that  rare  turn  of  his  eye,  and  by  his  deft  expres- 
sions, when,  as  chance  acquaintances  grouped  about 
him,  —  as  is  the  way  of  watering-places,  —  and  eager 
listeners  multiplied,  his  hilarity  and  spirit  took  a  chill 
from  the  increasing  auditory,  and  drawing  abruptly  to  a 
close,  he  would  sidle  away  with  a  friend  and  be  gone. 

Among  the  visitors  was  a  tall,  interesting  young  girl 
—  from  Louisiana,  if  I  mistake  not  —  who  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  great  heiress,  and  who  was,  of 
course,  beset  by  a  host  of  admirers.  There  was  some- 
thing very  attractive  in  her  air,  and  Mr.  Irving  was 
never  tired  of  gazing  on  her  as  she  walked,  with  what 
he  called  a  "faun-like  step,"  across  the  lawn,  or  up 
and  down  the  corridors.     Her  eyes  too  —  "  dove-like," 


xii  A  NEW  PREFACE. 

he  termed  them  —  were  his  special  admiration.  He 
watched  with  an  amused  interest  the  varying  fortunes 
of  the  rival  lovers,  and  often  met  me  with  —  "Well, 
who  is  in  favor  to-day  ?  "  And  he  discussed  very  freely 
the  varying  chances. 

One  brusque,  heavy  man,  who  thought  to  carry  the 
matter  through  by  a  coup  de  main,  he  was  sure  could 
never  succeed.  A  second,  who  was  most  assiduous,  but 
whose  brazen  confidence  was  unyielding,  he  counted 
still  less  upon.  But  a  quiet,  somewhat  older  gentle- 
man, whose  look  was  ever  full  of  tender  appeal,  and  who 
bore  himself  with  a  modest  dignity,  he  reckoned  the 
probable  winner.  "  He  will  ffeel  a  Nay  grievously,"  said 
he  ;  "  but  for  the  others,  they  will  forget  it  in  a  supper." 

I  believe  it  eventually  proved  that  no  one  of  those 
present  was  the  successful  suitor.  I  know  only  that 
the  fair  girl  was  afterward  a  bride  ;  and  (what  we  all  so 
little  anticipated)  her  home  is  now  a  scene  of  desola- 
tion, her  fortune  very  likely  a  wreck,  her  family  scat- 
tered or  slain,  and  herself,  maybe,  a  fugitive. 

I  saw  Mr.  Irving  afterward  repeatedly  in  New  York, 
and  passed  two  delightful  days  at  Sunnyside.  I  can 
never  forget  a  drive  with  him  upon  a  crisp  autumn 
morning  through  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  all  the  notable 
localities  of  his  neighborhood,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  kindly  called  my  attention,  in  the  most  unaffected 
and  incidental  way,  to  those  which  had  been  specially 


A   NEW  PREFACE.  xiii 

illustrated  by  his  pen ;  and  with  a  rare  humor  recounted 
to  me  some  of  his  boyish  adventures  among  the  old 
Dutch  farmers  of  this  region.  Most  of  all,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  forget  the  rare  kindliness  of  his  man- 
ner, his  friendly  suggestions,  and  the  beaming  expression 
of  his  eye. 

I  met  it  last  at  the  little  stile  from  which  I  strolled 
away  to  the  station  at  Dearman  ;  and  when  I  saw  the 
kind  face  again,  it  was  in  the  eoflSn,  at  the  little  church 
where  he  attended  service.  But  the  eyes  were  closed, 
and  the  wonderful  radiance  of  expression  gone.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  death  never  took  away  more  from  a 
living  face ;  it  was  but  a  cold  shadow  lying  there,  of  the 
man  who  had  taught  a  nation  to  love  him. 

Edgewood,  Sept.  1863. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

FAOl 

I.  With  my  Aunt  Tabitht     .       .       .       .       .       .  1 

II.  With  my  Reader 9 

DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

Spbino 21 

I.  Bain  in  the  Garret 26 

n.  School-Dreams 33 

III.  Boy  Sentiment 43 

IV.  A  Friend  made  and  Friend  lost     ....  49 
v.  Boy  Keligion 60 

VI.  A  New-England  Squire 67 

VII.  The  Country  Church 78 

VIII.  A  Home  Scene 86 

DREAMS  OF  YOUTH. 

Summer 97 

I.  Cloister  Life 104 

II.  First  Ambition 115 

III.  College  Romance 120 

IV.  First  Look  at  the  World 132 

V.  A  Broken  Home 142 

VI.  Family  Confidence 151 

VIL  A  Good  Wife 159 

VIII.  A  Broken  Hopk 167 


CONTENTS. 


DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD. 

A.UTUMN 179 

I.  Pkide  of  Manliness 184 

II.  Man  of  the  World 191 

III.  Manly  Hope 198 

IV.  Manly  Love 207 

V.  Cheer  and  Children       ......  213 

VI.  A  Dream  of  Darkness 221 

VII.  Peace 229 

DREAMS  OF  AGE. 

Winter 239 

I.  What  is  Gone 243 

II.  What  is  Left 249 

III.  Grief  and  Joy  op  Age 255 

IV.  The  End  of  Dreams 261 


INTBODUOTOBY. 


With  my  Aunt  Tahithy. 

PSHAW ! "  said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  "  have  you  not 
done  with  dreaming  ?  " 

My  Aunt  Tabithy,  though  an  excellent  and  most 
notable  person,  loves  occasionally  a  quiet  bit  of  satire. 
And  when  I  told  her  that  I  was  sharpening  my  pen  for 
a  new  story  of  those  dreamy  fancies  and  half-experi- 
ences which  lie  grouped  along  the  journeying  hours  of 
my  solitary  life,  she  smiled  as  if  in  derision. 

"Ah,  Isaac,"  said  she,  "  all  that  is  exhausted ; 

you  have  rung  so  many  changes  on  your  hopes  and 
your  dreams,  that  you  have  nothing  left  but  to  make 
them  real  —  if  you  can." 

It  is  very  idle  to  get  angry  with  a  good-natured  old 
lady.    I  did  better  than  this,  —  I  made  her  listen  to  me. 

Exhausted,  do  you  say,  Aunt  Tabithy  ?     Is  life 

then  exhausted  ;  is  hope  gone  out ;  is  fancy  dead  ? 

No,  no.  Hope  and  the  world  are  full ;  and  he  who 
1 


2  DREAM-LIFE. 

drags  into  book-pages  a  phase  or  two  of  the  great  life 
of  passion,  of  endurance,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  is  but  wet- 
ting a  feather  in  tlie  sea  that  breaks  ceaselessly  along 
the  great  shore  of  the  years.  Every  man's  heart  is  a 
living  drama  ;  every  death  is  a  drop-scene  ;  every  book 
only  a  faint  foot-light  to  throw  a  little  flicker  on  the 
stage. 

There  is  no  need  of  wandering  widely  to  catch  inci- 
dent or  adventure  ;  they  are  everywhere  about  us  ;  each 
day  is  a  succession  of  escapes  and  joys,  —  not  perhaps 
clear  to  the  world,  but  brooding  in  our  thought,  and 
living  in  our  brain.  From  the  very  first,  Angels  and 
Devils  are  busy  with  us,  and  we  are  struggling  against 
them  and  for  them. 

No,  no,  Aimt  Tabithy  ;  this  life  of  musing  does  not 
exhaust  so  easily.  It  is  like  the  springs  on  the  farm- 
land, that  are  fed  with  all  the  showers  and  the  dews  of 
the  year,  and  that  from  the  narrow  fissures  of  the  rock 
send  up  streams  continually  ;  or  it  is  like  the  deep  well 
in  the  meadow,  where  one  may  see  stars  at  noon  when 
no  stars  are  shining. 

What  is  Reverie,  and  what  are  these  Day-dreams, 
but  fleecy  cloud-drifts  that  float  eternally,  and  eternally 
change  shapes,  upon  the  great  over-arching  sky  of 
thought  ?  You  may  seize  the  strong  outlines  that  the 
passion-breezes  of  to-day  shall  throw  into  their  figures ; 
but  to-morrow  may  breed  a  whirlwind  that  will  chase 


INTRODUCTORY.  8 

swift,  gigantic  shadows  over  the  heaven  of  your  thought, 
and  change  the  whole  landscape  of  your  life. 

Dream-land  will  never  be  exhausted,  until  we  enter 
the  land  of  dreams,  and  until,  in  "  shuffling  off  this  mor- 
tal coil,"  thought  will  become  fact,  and  all  facts  will  be 
only  thought. 

As  it  is,  I  can  conceive  no  mood  of  mind  more  in 
keeping  with  what  is  to  follow  upon  the  grave,  than 
those  fancies  which  warp  our  frail  hulks  toward  the 
ocean  of  the  Infinite,  and  that  so  sublimate  the  realities 
of  this  being,  that  they  seem  to  belong  to  that  shadowy 
realm  whither  every  day's  journey  is  leading. 

—  It  was  warm  weather,  and  my  aunt  was  dozing. 
"  What  is  this  all  to  be  about  ?  "  said  she,  recovering 
her  knitting-needle. 

"About  love,  and  toil,  and  duty,  and  sorrow,"  said  I. 

My  aunt  laid  down  her  knitting,  looked  at  me  over 
the  rim  of  her  spectacles,  and  —  took  snuff. 

I  said  nothing. 

"  How  many  times  have  you  been  in  love,  Isaac  ?  " 
said  she. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say,  "  Pshaw ! " 

Judging  from  her  look  of  assurance,  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  made  a  more  satisfactory  reply. 

My  aimt  finished  the  needle  she  was  upon,  smoothed 
the  stocking-leg  over  her  knee,  and  looking  at  me  with 
a  very  comical  expression,  said,  "  Isaac,  you  are  a  sad 
fellow ! " 


4  DREAM-LIFE. 

I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  this  ;  it  sounded  very  much 
as  if  it  would  have  been  in  the  mouth  of  any  one  else — 
"  bad  fellow." 

And  she  went  on  to  ask  me,  in  a  very  bantering  way, 
if  my  stock  of  youthful  loves  was  not  nearly  exhausted ; 
and  she  cited  the  episode  of  the  fair-haired  Enrica,  as 
perhaps  the  most  tempting  that  I  could  draw  from  my 
experience. 

A  better  man  than  myself,  if  he  had  only  a  fair  share 
of  vanity,  would  have  been  nettled  at  this ;  and  I  re- 
plied somewhat  tartly,  that  I  had  never  professed  to 
write  my  experiences.  These  might  be  more  or  less 
tempting ;  but  certainly  if  they  were  of  a  kind  which  I 
have  attempted  to  portray  in  the  characters  of  Bella,  or 
of  Carry,  neither  my  Aunt  Tabithy  nor  any  one  else 
should  have  learned  such  truth  from  any  book  of  mine. 
There  are  griefs  too  sacred  to  be  babbled  to  the  world ; 
and  there  may  be  loves  which  one  would  forbear  to 
whisper  even  to  a  friend. 

No,  no ;  imagination  has  been  playing  pranks  with 
memory  ;  and  if  I  have  made  the  feeling  real,  I  am  con- 
tent that  the  facts  should  be  false.  Feeling,  indeed,  has 
a  higher  truth  in  it  than  circumstance.  It  appeals  to  a 
larger  jury  for  acquittal ;  it  is  approved  or  condemned 
by  a  better  judge.  And  if  I  can  catch  this  bolder  and 
richer  truth  of  feeling,  I  will  not  mind  if  the  types  of  it 
are  all  fabrications. 


INTRODUCTORY.  6 

If  I  run  over  some  sweet  experience  of  love,  (my 
Aunt  Tabithy  brightened  a  little,)  must  I  make  good 
the  fact  that  the  loved  one  lives,  and  expose  her  name 
and  qualities  to  make  your  sympathy  sound  ?  Or  shall  I 
not  rather  be  working  upon  higher  and  holier  ground, 
if  I  take  the  passion  for  itself,  and  so  weave  it  into 
words,  that  you  and  every  willing  sufferer  may  recog- 
nize the  fervor,  and  forget  the  personality  ? 

Life,  after  all,  is  but  a  bundle  of  hints,  each  suggest- 
ing actual  and  positive  development,  but  rarely  reach- 
ing it  And  as  I  recall  these  hints,  and  in  fancy  trace 
them  to  their  issues,  I  am  as  truly  dealing  with  life  as 
if  my  life  had  dealt  them  all  to  me. 

This  is  what  I  would  be  doing  in  the  present  book. 
I  would  catch  up  here  and  there  the  shreds  of  feeling 
which  the  brambles  and  roughnesses  of  the  world  have 
left  tangling  on  my  heart,  and  weave  them  out  into 
those  soft  and  perfect  tissues  which,  if  the  world  had 
been  only  a  little  less  rough,  might  now  perhaps  enclose 
my  heart  altogether. 

"  Ah,"  said  ray  Aunt  Tabithy,  as  she  smoothed  the 
stocking-leg  again,  with  a  sigh,  "  there  is,  after  all,  but 
one  youth-time  ;  and  if  you  put  down  its  memories  once, 
you  can  find  no  second  growth." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  was  wrong.  There  is  as  much 
growth  in  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  run  behind  us 
as  in  those  that  run  before  us.     You  may  make  a  rich, 


6  DREAM-LIFE. 

full  picture  of  your  childhood  to-day ;  but  let  the  hour 
go  by,  and  the  darkness  stoop  to  your  pillow  with  its 
million  shapes  of  the  past,  and  my  word  for  it,  you  shall 
have  some  flash  of  childhood  lighten  upon  you,  that  was 
unknown  to  your  busiest  thought  of  the  morning. 

Let  a  week  go  by,  and  in  some  interval  of  care,  as 
you  recall  the  smile  of  a  mother,  or  some  pale  sister  who 
is  dead,  a  new  crowd  of  memories  will  rush  upon  your 
soul,  and  leave  their  traces  in  such  tears  as  will  make 
you  kinder  and  better  for  days  and  weeks.  Or  you  shall 
assist  at  some  neighbor  funeral,  where  the  little  dead 
one  (like  one  you  have  seen  before)  shall  hold  in  its 
tiny  grasp  (as  you  have  taught  little  dead  hands  to  do) 
fresh  flowers,  laughing  flowers,  lying  lightly  on  the 
white  robe  of  the  dear  child,  —  all  pale,  cold,  silent  — 

I  hadlouched  my  Aunt  Tabithy  :  she  had  dropped  a 
stitch  in  her  knitting.     I  believe  she  was  weeping. 

—  Aye,  this  brain  of  ours  is  a  master-worker,  whose 
appliances  we  do  not  one  half  know  ;  and  this  heart  of 
ours  is  a  rare  storehouse,  furnishing  the  brain  with  new 
material  every  hour  of  our  lives ;  and  their  limits  we 
shall  not  know,  until  they  shall  end  —  together. 

Nor  is  there,  as  many  faint-hearts  imagine,  but  one 
phase  of  earnestness  in  our  life  of  feeling.  One  train 
of  deep  emotion  cannot  fill  up  the  heart :  it  radiates  like 
a  star,  God-ward  and  earth-ward.  It  spends  and  reflects 
all  ways.     Its  force  is  to  be  reckoned  not  so  much  by 


INTRODUCTORY.  7 

token  as  by  capacity.  Facts  are  the  poorest  and  most 
slumberous  evidences  of  passion  or  of  affection.  True 
feeling  is  ranging  everywhere ;  whereas  your  actual 
attachments  are  too  apt  to  be  tied  to  sense. 

A  single  affection  may  indeed  be  true,  earnest,  and 
absorbing ;  but  such  an  one,  after  all,  is  but  a  type  — 
and  if  the  object  be  worthy,  a  glorious  type  —  of  the 
great  book  of  feeling:  it  is  only  the  vapor  from  the 
caldron  of  the  heart,  and  bears  no  deeper  relation  to 
its  exhaustless  sources  than  the  letter,  which  my  pen 
makes,  bears  to  the  thought  that  inspires  it,  —  or  than 
a  single  morning  strain  of  your  orioles  and  thrushes 
bears  to  that  wide  bird-chorus  which  is  making  every 
sunrise  a  worship,  and  every  grove  a  temple ! 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  nodded. 

Nor  is  this  a  mere  bachelor  fling  against  constancy. 
I  can  believe.  Heaven  knows,  in  an  unalterable  and 
unflinching  affection,  which  neither  desires  nor  admits 
the  prospect  of  any  other.  But  when  one  is  tasking 
his  brain  to  talk  for  his  heart,  —  when  he  is  not  writing 
positive  history,  but  only  making  mention,  as  it  were, 
of  the  heart's  capacities,  —  who  shall  say  that  he  has 
reached  the  fulness,  that  he  has  exhausted  the  stock 
of  its  feeling,  or  that  he  has  touched  its  highest  notes  ? 
It  is  true,  there  is  but  one  heart  in  a  man  to  be  stirred  ; 
but  every  stir  creates  a  new  combination  of  feeling,  that 
like  the  turn  of  a  kaleidoscope  will  show  some  fresh 
color  or  form. 


8  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  bachelor,  to  be  sure,  has  a  marvellous  advantage  in 
this ;  and  with  the  tenderest  influences  once  anchored 
in  the  bay  of  marriage,  there  is  little  disposition  to  scud 
off  under  each  pleasant  breeze  of  feeling.  Nay,  I  can 
even  imagine  —  perhaps  somewhat  captiously  —  that 
after  marriage,  feeling  would  become  a  habit,  a  rich  and 
holy  habit  certainly,  but  yet  a  habit,  which  weakens  the 
omnivorous  grasp  of  the  affections,  and  schools  one  to 
a  unity  of  emotion  that  doubts  and  ignores  the  prompt- 
ness and  variety  of  impulse  which  we  bachelors  possess. 

My  aunt  nodded  again. 

Could  it  be  that  she  approved  what  I  had  been  say- 
ing ?    I  hardly  knew. 

Poor  old  lady,  —  she  did  not  know  herself.  She  was 
asleep  1 


II. 

With  my  Reader. 

TTAVING  silenced  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  I  shall  be 
generous  enough,  in  my  triumph,  to  offer  an  ex- 
planatory chat  to  my  reader. 

This  is  a  history  of  Dreams  ;  and  there  \rill  be  those 
who  will  sneer  at  such  a  history,  as  the  work  of  a 
dreamer.  So  indeed  it  is ;  and  you,  my  courteous 
reader,  are  a  dreamer  too ! 

You  would  perhaps  like  to  find  your  speculations 
about  wealth,  marriage,  or  influence  called  by  some 
better  name  than  Dreams.  You  would  like  to  see  the 
history  of  them  —  if  written  at  all  —  baptized  at  the 
font  of  your  own  vanity,  with  some  such  title  as  —  life's 
cares,  or  life's  work.  If  there  had  been  a  philosophic 
naming  to  my  observations,  you  m.ight  have  reckoned 
them  good ;  as  it  is,  you  count  them  all  bald  and  pal- 
pable fiction. 

But  is  it  so  ?     I  care  not  how  matter-of-fact  you  may 

be,  you  have  in  your  own  life  at  some  time  proved  the 

»rery  truth  of  what  I  have  set  down  ;  and  the  chances 

are.  that  even  now,  gray  as  you  may  be,  and  economic 

1* 


10  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  you  may  be,  and  devotional  as  you  pretend  to  be,  you 
light  up  your  Sabbath  reflections  with  just  such  dreams 
of  wealth,  of  per  centages,  or  of  family,  as  you  will  find 
scattered  over  these  pages. 

I  am  not  to  be  put  aside  with  any  talk  about  stocks, 
and  duties,  and  respectability  :  all  these,  though  very 
eminent  matters,  are  but  so  many  types  in  the  volume 
of  your  thought ;  and  your  eager  resolves  about  them 
are  but  so  many  ambitious  waves  breaking  up  from 
that  great  sea  of  dreamy  speculation  that  has  spread 
over  your  soul  from  its  first  start  into  the  realm  of 
Consciousness. 

No  man's  brain  is  so  dull,  and  no  man's  eye  so  blind, 
that  they  cannot  catch  food  for  dreams.  Each  little 
episode  of  life  is  full,  had  we  but  the  perception  of  its 
fulness.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  blank  in  the  world 
of  thought.  Every  action  and  emotion  have  their  devel- 
opment growing  and  gaining  on  the  soul.  Every  affec- 
tion has  its  tears  and  smiles.  Nay,  the  very  material 
world  is  full  of  meaning,  and  by  suggesting  thought  is 
making  us  what  we  are  and  what  we  will  be. 

The  sparrow  that  is  twittering  on  the  edge  of  my 
balcony  is  calling  up  to  me  this  moment  a  world  of 
memories  that  reach  over  half  my  lifetime,  and  a  world 
of  hope  that  stretches  farther  than  any  flight  of  spar- 
rows. The  rose-tree  which  shades  his  mottled  coat  is 
full  of  buds  and  blossoms ;  and  each  bud  and  blossom 


WITH  Mi'  READER.  11 

is  a  token  of  promise  that  has  issues  coveirng  life,  and 
reaching  beyond  death.  The  quiet  sunshine  beyond 
the  flower  and  beyond  the  sparrow,  —  glistening  upon 
the  leaves,  and  playing  in  delicious  waves  of  warmth 
over  the  reeking  earth, — is  lighting  both  heart  and  hope, 
and  quickening  into  activity  a  thousand  thoughts  of 
what  has  been  and  of  what  will  be.  The  meadow 
stretching  away  under  its  golden  flood,  —  waving  with 
grain,  and  with  the  feathery  blossoms  of  the  grass,  and 
golden  buttercups,  and  white,  nodding  daisies,  —  comes 
to  my  eye  like  the  lapse  of  fading  childhood,  studded 
here  and  there  v.  ith  the  bright  blossoms  of  joy,  crim- 
soned all  over  with  the  flush  of  health,  and  enamelled 
with  memories  that  perfume  the  soul.  The  blue  hills 
beyond,  with  deep -blue  shadows  gathered  in  their 
bosom,  lie  before  me  like  mountains  of  years,  over  which 
I  shall  climb  through  shadows  to  the  slope  of  Age,  and 
go  down  to  the  deeper  shadows  of  Death. 

Nor  are  dreams  without  their  variety,  whatever  your 
character  may  be.  I  care  not  how  much  in  the  pride  of 
your  practical  judgment,  or  in  your  learned  fancies,  you 
may  sneer  at  any  dream  of  love,  and  reckon  it  all  a 
poet's  fiction :  there  are  times  when  such  dreams  come 
over  you  like  a  summer-cloud,  and  almost  stifle  you  with 
their  warmth. 

Seek  as  you  will  for  increase  of  lands  or  moneys,  and 
there  are  moments  when  a  spark  of  some  giant  mind 


12  DREAM-LIFE. 

will  flash  over  your  cravings,  and  wake  your  soul  sud- 
denly to  a  quick  and  yearning  sense  of  that  influence 
which  is  begotten  of  intellect ;  and  you  task  your 
dreams  —  as  I  have  copied  them  here  —  to  build  before 
you  the  pleasures  of  such  a  renown. 

I  care  not  how  worldly  you  may  be :  there  are  times 
when  all  distinctions  seem  like  dust,  and  when  at  the 
graves  of  the  great  you  dream  of  a  coming  country, 
where  your  proudest  hopes  shall  be  dimmed  forever. 

Married  or  unmarried,  young  or  old,  poet  or  worker, 
you  are  still  a  dreamer,  and  will  one  time  know,  and 
feel,  that  your  life  is  but  a  dream.  Yet  you  call  this 
fiction :  you  stave  off"  the  thoughts  in  print  which  come 
over  you  in  reverie.  You  will  not  admit  to  the  eye 
what  is  true  to  the  heart.  Poor  weakling,  and  world- 
ling, you  are  not  strong  enough  to  face  yourself ! 

You  will  read  perhaps  with  smiles ;  you  will  possibly 
praise  the  ingenuity ;  you  will  talk  with  a  lip  schooled 
against  the  slightest  quiver  of  some  bit  of  pathos,  and 
say  that  it  is  —  well  done.  Yet  why  is  it  well  done  ?  — 
only  because  it  is  stolen  from  your  very  life  and  heart. 
It  is  good,  because  it  is  so  common ;  ingenious,  be- 
cause it  is  so  honest ;  well-conceived,  because  it  is  not 
conceived  at  all. 

There  are  thousands  of  mole-eyed  people  who  count 
all  passion  in  print  a  lie,  —  people  who  will  grow  into 
a  rage  at  trifles,  and  weep  in  the  dark,  and  love  in  secret, 


WITH  MY  READER.  18 

and  hope  without  mention,  and  cover  it  all  under  the 
cloak  of  what  they  call  — -  propriety.  I  can  see  before 
me  now  some  gray-haired  old  gentleman,  very  money- 
getting,  very  correct,  very  cleanly,  who  reads  the  morning 
paper  with  unction,  and  his  Bible  with  determination, 
—  who  listens  to  dull  sermons  with  patience,  and  who 
prays  with  quiet  self-applause ;  and  yet  there  are  mo- 
ments belonging  to  his  life,  when  his  curdled  affections 
yearn  for  something  that  they  have  not,  —  when  his 
avarice  oversteps  all  the  commp.ndments,  —  when  his 
pride  builds  castles  full  of  splendor ;  and  yet  put  this 
before  his  eye,  and  he  reads  with  the  most  careless  air 
in  the  world,  and  condemns  as  arrant  fiction,  what  can- 
not be  proved  to  the  elders. 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  emotions  unriddled :  it  is 
not  agreeable  to  the  proud  man  to  find  his  weaknesses 
exposed  ;  it  is  shocking  to  the  disappointed  lover  to  see 
his  heart  laid  bare  ;  it  is  a  great  grief  to  the  pining 
maiden  to  witness  the  exposure  of  her  loves.  We  do 
not  like  our  fancies  painted  ;  we  do  not  contrive  them 
for  rehearsal :  our  dreams  are  private,  and  when  they  are 
made  public,  we  disown  them. 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  must  be  a  very  honest  fellow 
for  writing  down  those  fancies,  —  which  every  one  else 
seems  afraid  to  v.hisper.  I  shall  at  least  come  in  for 
my  share  of  the  odium  in  entertaining  such  fancies : 
indeed  I  shall  expect  the  charge  of  entertaining  them 


14  DREAM-LIFE, 

exclusively,  and  shall  scarce  expect  to  find  a  single 
fellow-confessor,  unless  it  be  some  pure  and  innocent- 
thoughted  girl,  who  will  say  peccavi  to  —  here  and  there 
—  a  single  rainbow  fancy. 

Well,  I  can  bear  it ;  but  in  bearing  it,  I  shall  be  con- 
soled with  the  reflection  that  I  have  a  great  company 
of  fellow-sufferers,  who  lack  only  the  honesty  to  tell  me 
of  their  sympathy.  It  will  even  reheve  in  no  small 
degree  my  biurden  to  watch  the  effort  they  will  take  to 
conceal  what  I  have  so  boldly  divulged. 

Nature  is  very  much  the  same  thing  in  one  man  that 
it  is  in  another ;  and,  as  I  have  already  said,  Feeling  has 
a  higher  truth  in  it  than  circumstance.  Let  it  only  be 
touched  fairly  and  honestly,  and  the  heart  of  humanity 
answers ;  but  if  it  be  touched  foully  or  one-sidedly,  you 
may  find  here  and  there  a  lame-souled  creature  who 
will  give  response,  but  there  is  no  heart-throb  in  it. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure: — if  my  pictures  are  fair, 
worthy,  and  hearty,  you  must  see  it  in  the  reading  ;  but 
if  they  are  forced  and  hard,  no  amount  of  kindness  can 
make  you  feel  their  truth,  as  I  want  them  felt. 

I  make  no  self-praise  out  of  this  :  if  feeling  has  been 
honestly  set  down,  it  is  only  in  virtue  of  a  native  im- 
pulse, over  which  I  have  altogether  too  little  control ; 
but  if  it  is  set  down  badly,  I  have  wronged  Nature,  and 
(as  Nature  is  kind)  I  have  wronged  myself 

A  great  many  inquisitive  people  will,  I  do  not  doubt, 


IVriH  iMV  READER.  15 

be  asking,  after  all  this  prelude,  if  my  pictures  are  true 
pictures  ?  The  question  —  the  courteous  reader  will 
allow  me  to  say  —  is  an  impertinent  one.  It  is  but  a 
shabby  truth  that  wants  an  author's  affidavit  to  make  it 
trustworthy.  I  shall  not  help  my  story  by  any  such 
poor  support.  If  there  are  not  enough  elements  of 
truth,  honesty,  and  nature  in  my  pictures  to  make  them 
believed,  they  shall  have  no  oath  of  mine  to  bolster 
them  up. 

I  have  been  a  sufferer  in  this  way  before  now  ;  and  a 
little  book  that  I  had  the  whim  to  publish  a  year  since, 
has  been  set  down  by  many  as  an  arrant  piece  of  im- 
posture. Claiming  sympathy  as  a  Bachelor,  I  have 
been  recklessly  set  down  as  a  cold,  undeserving  man 
of  family !  My  story  of  troubles  and  loves  has  been 
sneered  at  as  the  sheerest  gammon. 

But  among  this  crowd  of  cold-blooded  critics,  it  was 
pleasant  to  hear  of  one  or  two  pursy  old  fellows  who 
railed  at  me  fbr  winning  the  affections  of  a  sweet  Italian 
girl,  and  then  leaving  her  to  pine  in  discontent !  Yet 
in  the  face  of  this,  an  old  companion  of  mine  in  Rome, 
with  whom  I  accidentally  met  the  other  day,  wondered 
how  on  earth  I  could  have  made  so  tempting  a  story 
out  of  the  matronly  and  black-haired  spinster  with 
whom  I  happened  to  be  quartered  in  the  Eternal  City  ! 

I  shall  leave  my  critics  to  settle  such  differences 
between  themselves ;  and  consider  it  far  better  to  bear 


16  DREAM-LIFE. 

with  slanders  from  both  sides  of  the  house,  than  to 
bewray  the  pretty  tenderness  of  the  pursy  old  gentle- 
men, or  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  practical  testimony  of 
my  quondam  companion.  Both  give  me  high  and  ju- 
dicious compliment,  —  all  the  more  grateful  because 
only  half  deserved.  For  I  never  yet  was  conscious  — 
alas,  that  the  confession  should  be  forced  from  me  !  — 
of  winning  the  heart  of  any  maiden,  whether  native  or 
Italian  ;  and  as  for  such  delicacy  of  imagination  as  to 
work  up  a  lovely  damsel  out  of  the  withered  remnant 
that  forty  odd  years  of  Italian  life  can  spare,  I  can 
assure  my  middle-aged  friends,  (and  it  may  serve  as  a 
caveat,)  I  can  lay  no  claim  to  it  whatever. 

The  trouble  has  been,  that  those  who  have  believed 
one  passage,  have  discredited  another ;  and  those  who 
have  sympathized  with  me  in  trifles,  have  deserted  me 
when  affairs  grew  earnest.  I  have  had  sympathy 
enough  with  my  married  griefs,  but  when  it  came  to 
the  perplexing  torments  of  my  single  life  —  not  a 
weeper  could  I  find ! 

I  would  suggest  to  those  who  intend  to  believe  only 
half  of  my  present  book,  that  they  exercise  a  little  dis- 
cretion in  their  choice.  I  am  not  fastidious  in  the 
matter,  and  only  ask  them  to  believe  what  counts  most 
toward  the  goodness  of  humanity,  and  to  discredit  — 
if  they  will  persist  in  it  —  only  what  tells  badly  for  our 
common   nature.     The  man,  or  the  woman,  who  be- 


WITH  MY  READER.  17 

lieves  well,  is  apt  to  work  well ;  and  Faith  is  as  much 
the  key  to  happiness  here,  as  it  is  the  key  to  happiness 
hereafter. 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say  before  I  get  upon 
my  story.  A  great  many  sharp-eyed  people,  who  havfe 
a  horror  of  light  reading,  —  by  which  they  mean  what 
ever  does  not  make  mention  of  stocks,  cottons,  or  moral 
homilies,  —  will  find  much  fault  with  my  book  for  its 
ephemeral  character. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  gratify  such :  homilies  are 
not  at  all  in  my  habit ;  and  it  does  seem  to  me  an 
exhausting  way  of  disposing  of  a  good  moral,  to  ham- 
mer it  down  to  a  single  point,  so  that  there  shall  be 
only  one  chance  of  driving  it  home.  For  my  own  part, 
I  count  it  a  great  deal  better  philosophy  to  fuse  it,  and 
rarefy  it,  so  that  it  shall  spread  out  into  every  crevice 
of  a  story,  and  give  a  color  and  a  taste,  as  it  were,  to 
the  who'e  mass. 

I  know  there  are  very  good  people,  who,  if  they 
cannot  lay  their  finger  on  so  much  doctrine  set  down 
in  old-fashioned  phrase,  will  never  get  an  inkling  of 
it  at  all.  With  such  people,  goodness  is  a  thing  of 
understanding,  more  than  of  feeling,  and  all  their 
morality  has  its  action  in  the  brain. 

God  forbid  that  I  should  sneer  at  this  terrible  in- 
firmity, which  Providence  has  seen  fit  to  inflict ;  God 
forbid,  too,  that  I  should  not  be  grateful  to  the  same 


18  DREAM-LIFE. 

kind  Providence  for  bestowing  upon  others  among  his 
creatures  a  more  genial  apprehension  of  true  goodness, 
and  a  hearty  sympathy  with  every  shade  of  human 
kindness. 

But  in  all  this  I  am  not  making  out  a  case  for  my 
own  correct  teaching,  or  insinuating  the  propriety  of 
my  tone.  I  shall  leave  the  book,  in  this  regard,  to 
speak  for  itself;  and  whoever  feels  himself  growing 
worse  for  the  reading,  I  advise  to  lay  it  down.  It  will 
be  very  harmless  on  the  shelf,  however  it  may  be  in 
the  hand. 

I  shall  lay  no  claim  to  the  title  of  moralist,  teacher, 
or  romancist :  my  thoughts  start  pleasant  pictures  to 
my  mind ;  and  in  a  garrulous  humor  I  put  my  finger 
in  the  button-hole  of  my  indulgent  friend,  and  tell  him 
some  of  them,  —  giving  him  leave  to  quit  me  whenever 
he  chooses. 

Or,  if  a  lady  is  my  listener,  let  her  fancy  me  only  an 
honest,  simple-hearted  fellow,  whose  familiarities  are  so 
innocent  that  she  can  pardon  them  ;  —  taking  her  hand 
in  his,  and  talking  on ;  sometimes  looking  in  her  eyes, 
and  then  looking  into  the  sunshine  for  relief;  some- 
times prosy  with  narrative,  and  then  sharpening  up 
my  matter  with  a  few  touches  of  honest  pathos  ;  ™  let 
ker  imagine  this,  I  say,  and  we  may  become  the  most 
excellent  friends  in  the  world. 


SPRING; 


DREAMS   OF  BOYHOOD. 


DREAMS   OF  BOYHOOD, 


Spring. 

rMHE  old  chroniclers  made  the  year  begin  in  the 
-*-  season  of  frosts ;  and  they  have  launched  us  upon 
the  current  of  the  months  from  the  snowy  banks  of 
January.  I  love  better  to  count  time  from  spring  to 
spring;  it  seems  to  me  far  more  cheerful  to  reckon 
the  year  by  blossoms  than  by  blight. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  in  his  sweet  story  of  Vir- 
ginia, makes  the  bloom  of  the  cocoa-tree,  or  the  growth 
of  the  banana,  a  yearly  and  a  loved  monitor  of  the 
passage  of  her  life.  How  cold  and  cheerless  in  the 
comparison  would  be  the  icy  chronology  of  the  North  ; 
—  So  many  years  have  I  seen  the  lakes  locked,  and 
the  foliage  die ! 

The  budding  and  blooming  of  spring  seem  to  be- 
long properly  to  the  opening  of  the  months.  It  is  the 
season  of  the  quickest  expansion,  of  the  warmest  blood, 
of  the  readiest  growth ;  it  is  the  boy-age  of  the  year. 
The  birds  sing  in  chorus  in  the  spring  — just  as  chil- 


22  DREAM-LIFE. 

dren  prattle;  the  brooks  run  fiill — like  the  overflow 
of  young  hearts ;  the  showers  drop  easily  —  as  young 
tears  flow ;  and  the  whole  sky  is  as  capricious  as  the 
mind  of  a  boy. 

Between  tears  and  smiles,  the  year,  like  the  child, 
struggles  into  the  warmth  of  life.  The  old  year  —  say 
what  the  chronologists  will  —  lingers  upon  the  very 
lap  of  spring,  and  is  only  fairly  gone  when  the  blos- 
soms of  April  have  strown  their  pall  of  glory  upon  his 
tomb,  and  the  bluebirds  have  chanted  his  requiem. 

It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  an  access  of  life  came 
with  the  melting  of  the  winter's  snows,  and  as  if  every 
rootlet  of  grass,  that  lifted  its  first  green  blade  from  the 
matted  debris  of  the  old  year's  decay,  bore  my  spirit 
upon  it,  nearer  to  the  largess  of  Heaven. 

I  love  to  trace  the  break  of  spring  step  by  step :  I 
love  even  those  long  rain-storms,  that  sap  the  icy  for- 
tresses of  the  lingering  winter,  —  that  melt  the  snows 
upon  the  hills,  and  swell  the  mountain-brooks,  —  that 
make  the  pools  heave  up  their  glassy  cerements  of  ice, 
and  hurry  down  the  crashing  fragments  into  the  wastes 
of  ocean. 

I  love  the  gentle  thaws  that  you  can  trace,  day  by 
day,  by  the  stained  snow-banks,  shrinking  from  the 
grass  ;  and  by  the  gentle  drip  of  the  cottage-eaves.  I 
love  to  search  out  the  sunny  slopes  by  a  southern  wall, 
where  the  reflected  sun  does  double  duty  to  the  earth. 


SPRING.  23 

and  where  the  frail  anemone,  or  the  faint  blush  of  the 
arbutus,  in  the  midst  of  the  bleak  March  atmosphere, 
will  touch  your  heart,  like  a  hope  of  Heaven  in  a  field 
of  graves !  Later  come  those  soft,  smoky  days,  when 
the  patches  of  winter  grain  show  green  under  the 
shelter  of  leafless  woods,  and  the  last  snow-drifts,  re- 
duced to  shrunken  skeletons  of  ice,  lie  upon  the  slope 
of  northern  hills,  leaking  away  their  life. 

Then  the  grass  at  your  door  grows  into  the  color  of 
the  sprouting  grain,  and  the  buds  upon  the  lilacs  swell 
and  burst.  The  peaches  bloom  upon  the  wall,  and  the 
plums  wear  bodices  of  white.  The  sparkling  oriole 
picks  string  for  his  hammock  on  the  sycamore,  and  the 
sparrows  twitter  in  pairs.  The  old  elms  throw  down 
their  dingy  flowers,  and  color  their  spray  with  green ; 
and  the  brooks,  where  you  throw  your  Avorm  or  the 
minnow,  float  down  whole  fleets  of  the  crimson  blos- 
soms of  the  maple.  Finally  the  oaks  step  into  the 
opening  quadrille  of  spring,  with  grayish  tufl;s  of  a 
modest  verdure,  which  by-and-by  will  be  long  and 
glossy  leaves.  The  dog-wood  pitches  his  broad,  white 
tent  in  the  edge  of  the  forest;  the  dandelions  lie 
along  the  hillocks,  like  stars  in  a  sky  of  green  ;  and 
the  wild  cherry,  growing  in  all  the  hedge-rows,  with- 
out other  culture  than  God's,  lifts  up  to  Him  thank- 
fully its  tremulous  white  fingers. 

Amid  all  this  come  the  rich  rains  of  spring.     The 


24  DREAM-LIFE. 

affections  of  a  boy  grow  up  with  tears  to  water  them ; 
and  the  year  blooms  with  showers.  But  the  clouds 
hover  over  an  April  sky  timidly,  like  shadows  upon 
innocence.  The  showers  come  gently,  and  drop  dain- 
tily to  the  earth,  —  with  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of 
sunshine  to  make  the  drops  bright  —  like  so  many 
tears  of  joy. 

The  rain  of  winter  is  cold,  and  it  comes  in  bitter 
scuds  that  blind  you;  but  the  rain  of  April  steals  upon 
you  coyly,  half  reluctantly,  —  yet  lovingly  —  like  the 
steps  of  a  bride  to  the  Altar. 

It  does  not  gather  like  the  storm-clouds  of  winter, 
gray  and  heavy  along  the  horizon,  and  creep  with 
subtle  and  insensible  approaches  (like  age)  to  the  very 
zenith;  but  there  are  a  score  of  white-winged  swim- 
mers afloat,  that  your  eye  has  chased  as  you  lay  fa- 
tigued with  the  delicious  languor  of  an  April  sun ;  — 
nor  have  you  scarce  noticed  that  a  little  bevy  of  those 
floating  clouds  had  grouped  together  in  a  sombre  com- 
pany. But  presently  you  see  across  the  fields  the  dark 
gray  streaks,  stretching  like  lines  of  mists  from  the 
green  bosom  of  the  valley  to  that  spot  of  sky  where 
the  company  of  clouds  is  loitering ;  and  with  an  easy 
shifting  of  the  helm  the  fleet  of  swimmers  come  drift- 
ing over  you,  and  drop  their  burden  into  the  dancing 
pools,  and  make  the  flowers  glisten,  and  the  eaves  drip 
with  their  crystal  bounty. 


SPRING.  25 

The  cattle  linger  still,  cropping  the  new-come  grass  ; 
and  childhood  laughs  joyously  at  the  warm  rain,  or 
under  the  cottage-roof  catches  with  eager  ear  the  pat- 
ter of  its  fall. 

And  with  that  patter  on  the  roof,  —  so  like  to 

the  patter  of  childish  feet,  —  my  story  of  boyish  dreams 
shall  begin. 


1. 

Bain  in  the  Garret. 

IT  is  an  old  garret  with  big  brown  rafters ;  and  the 
boards  between  are  stained  darkly  with  the  rain- 
storms of  fifty  years.  And  as  the  sportive  April  shower 
quickens  its  flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents  would  come 
dashing  through  the  shingles  upon  you,  and  upon  your 
play.  But  it  will  not ;  for  you  know  that  the  old  roof 
is  strong,  and  that  it  has  kept  you,  and  all  that  love 
you,  for  long  years  from  the  rain  and  from  the  cold ; 
you  know  that  the  hardest  storms  of  winter  will  only 
make  a  little  oozing  leak,  that  trickles  down  the  brown 
stains  —  like  tears. 

You  love  that  old  garret-roof;  and  you  nestle  down 
under  its  slope  with  a  sense  of  its  protecting  power 
that  no  castle-walls  can  give  to  your  maturer  years. 
Aye,  your  heart  clings  in  boyhood  to  the  roof-tree  of 
the  old  family  garret  with  a  grateful  affection  and  an 
earnest  confidence,  that  the  after-years  —  whatever  may 
be  their  successes,  or  their  honors  —  can  never  re-create. 
Under  the  roof-tree  of  his  home  the  boy  feels  safe  : 
and  where  in  the  whole   realm  of  life,  with  its  bitter 


RAIN  IN   THE   GARRET.  27 

toils   and   its   bitterer   temptations,   will    he   feel   safe 
again  ? 

But  this  you  do  not  know.  It  seems  only  a  grand 
old  place ;  and  it  is  capital  fun  to  search  in  its  corners, 
and  drag  out  some  bit  of  quaint  old  furniture,  with  a 
leg  broken,  and  lay  a  cushion  across  it,  and  fix  your 
reins  upon  the  lion's  claws  of  the  feet,  and  then  —  gal- 
lop away  !  And  you  offer  sister  Nelly  a  chance,  if  she 
will  be  good  ;  and  throw  out  very  patronizing  words  to 
little  Charlie,  who  is  mounted  upon  a  much  humbler 
horse,  —  to  wit,  a  decrepit  nursery-chair,  —  as  he  of 
right  should  be,  since  he  is  three  years  your  junior. 

I  know  no  nobler  forage-ground  for  a  romantic,  vent 
uresome,  mischievous  boy,  than  the  garret  of  an  old 
family  mansion  on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect  field 
of  chivalry.  The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing  rain,  the 
piles  of  spare  mattresses  to  carouse  upon,  the  J)ig 
trunks  to  hide  in,  the  old  white  coats  and  hats  hanorinor 
in  obscure  corners,  like  ghosts,  —  are  great !  And  it  is 
so  far  away  from  the  old  lady  who  keeps  rule  in  the 
nursery,  that  there  is  no  possible  risk  of  a  scolding  for 
twisting  off  the  fringe  of  the  rug.  There  is  no  baby 
in  the  garret  to  wake  up.  There  is  no  "  company  "  in 
the  garret  to  be  disturbed  by  the  noise.  There  is  no 
crotchety  old  Uncle,  or  Grand-Ma,  with  their  everlast- 
ing "  Boys,  boys  ! "  and  then  a  look  of  such  horror ! 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through  a  tall  barrel 


28  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  books  and  pamplalets,  on  the  look-out  for  startling 
pictures ;  and  there  are  chestnuts  in  the  garret  drying, 
wliich  you  have  discovered  on  a  ledge  of  the  chimney ; 
and  you  slide  a  few  into  your  pocket,  and  munch  them 
quietly, —  giving  now  and  then  one  to  Nelly,  and  beg- 
ging her  to  keep  silent,  —  for  you  have  a  great  fear  of 
its  being  forbidden  fruit. 

Old  family  garrets  have  their  stock,  as  I  said,  of 
castaway  clothes  of  twenty  years  gone  by ;  and  it  is 
rare  sport  to  put  them  on ;  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or 
two  for  the  sake  of  good  fulness  ;  and  then  to  trick  out 
Nelly  in  some  strange-shaped  head-gear,  and  old-fash- 
ioned brocade  petticoat  caught  up  with  pins ;  and  in 
such  guise  to  steal  cautiously  down-stairs,  and  creep 
slyly  into  the  sitting-room,  —  half  afraid  of  a  scolding, 
and  very  sure  of  good  fun,  —  trying  to  look  very  sober, 
and  yet  almost  ready  to  die  with  the  laugh  that  you 
know  you  will  make.  And  your  mother  tries  to  look 
harshly  at  little  Nelly  for  putting  on  her  grandmother's 
best  bonnet ;  but  Nelly's  laughing  eyes  forbid  it  utterly  ; 
and  the  mother  spoils  all  her  scolding  with  a  perfect 
shower  of  kisses. 

After  this  you  go,  marching  very  stately,  into  the 
nursery,  and  utterly  amaze  the  old  nurse  ;  and  make  a 
deal  of  wonderment  for  the  staring,  half-frightened 
baby,  who  drops  his  rattle,  and  makes  a  bob  at  you  as 
if  he  would  jump  into  your  waistcoat-pocket. 


RAIN  IN  THE   GARRET.  29 

But  you  grow  tired  of  this  ;  you  tire  even  of  the 
swing,  and  of  the  pranks  of  Charlie  ;  and  you  glide 
away  into  a  corner  with  an  old,  dog's-eared  copy  of 
"  Robinson  Crusoe."  And  you  gi'ow  heart  and  soul  into 
the  story,  until  you  tremble  for  the  poor  fellow  with  his 
guns  behind  the  palisade  ;  and  are  yourself  half  dead 
with  fright  when  you  peep  cautiously  over  the  hill  with , 
your  glass,  and  see  the  cannibals  at  their  orgies  around 
the  fire. 

Yet,  after  all,  you  think  the  old  fellow  must  have  had 
a  capital  time  with  a  whole  island  to  himself;  and  you 
think  you  would  like  such  a  time  yourself,  if  only  Nelly 
and  Charlie  could  be  there  Avith  you.  But  this  thought 
does  not  come  till  afterward ;  for  the  time  you  are  noth- 
ing but  Crusoe  ;  you  are  living  in  his  cave  with  Poll 
the  parrot,  and  are  looking  out  for  your  goats  and  man 
Friday. 

You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would  be  for  you  to 
slip  away  some  pleasant  morning,  —  not  to  York,  as 
young  Crusoe  did,  but  to  New  York,  —  and  take  pas- 
sage as  a  sailor ;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you  were  going, 
there  would  be  such  a  world  of  good-byes ;  and  how,  if 
they  did  not  know  it,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of 
wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  altogether  such 
a  jaunty  affair ;  and  it  would  be  such  rare  sport  to  lie 
off  upon  the  yards  far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in 


30  DREAM-LIFE. 

pictures,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tumbling  sea. 
No  thought  now,  in  your  boyish  dreams,  of  sleety  storms, 
and  cables  stiffened  with  ice,  and  crashing  spars,  and 
great  icebergs  towering  fearfully  around  you ! 

You  would  have  better  luck  than  even  Crusoe ;  you 
would  save  a  compass,  and  a  Bible,  and  stores  of 
hatchets,  and  the  captain's  dog,  and  great  puncheons 
of  sweetmeats,  (which  Crusoe  altogether  overlooked ;) 
and  you  would  save  a  tent  or  two,  which  you  could  set 
up  on  the  shore,  and  an  American  flag,  and  a  small 
piece  of  cannon,  which  you  could  fire  as  often  as  you 
liked.  At  night  you  would  sleep  in  a  tree,  —  though 
you  wonder  how  Crusoe  did  it,  —  and  would  say  the 
prayers  you  had  been  taught  to  say  at  home,  and  fall 
to  sleep,  dreaming  of  Nelly  and  Charlie. 

At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would  come  down, 
feeling  very  much  refreshed ;  and  make  a  very  nice 
breakfast  off  of  smoked  herring  and  sea-bread,  with  a 
little  currant  jam,  and  a  few  oranges.  After  this  you 
would  haul  ashore  a  chest  or  two  of  the  sailors'  clothes, 
and  putting  a  few  large  jackknives  in  your  pocket, 
would  take  a  stroll  over  the  island,  and  dig  a  cave  some- 
where, and  roll  in  a  cask  or  two  of  sea-bread.  And 
you  fancy  yourself  growing  after  a  time  very  tall  and 
corpulent,  and  wearing  a  magnificent  goat-skin  cap 
trimmed  with  green  ribbons,  and  set  off"  with  a  plume. 
You  think  you  would  have  put  a  few  more  guns  in  the 


RAIN  IN  THE    GARRET.  31 

palisade  than  Crusoe  did,  and  charged  them  with  a  little 
more  grape. 

After  a  long  while  you  fancy  a  ship  would  arrive 
which  would  carry  you  back ;  and  you  count  upon  very 
great  surprise  on  the  part  of  your  father  and  little 
j^selly,  as  you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  family 
mansion,  with  plenty  of  gold  in  your  pocket,  and  a' 
small  bag  of  cocoa-nuts  for  Charlie,  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasant  talk  about  your  island  far  away  in  the 
South  Seas. 

Or  perhaps  it  is  not  Crusoe  at  all,  that  your  eyes 

and  your  heart  cling  to,  but  only  some  little  story  about 
Paul  and  Virginia; — that  dear  little  Virginia!  how 
many  tears  have  been  shed  over  her  —  not  in  garrets 
only,  or  by  boys  only  I 

You  would  have  liked  Virginia, you  know  you  would; 
but  you  perfectly  hate  the  beldame  aunt  who  sent  for 
her  to  come  to  France ;  you  think  she  must  have  been 
like  the  old  schoolmistress,  who  occasionally  boxes  your 
ears  with  the  cover  of  the  spelling-book,  or  makes  you 
wear  one  of  the  girls'  bonnets,  that  smells  strongly  of 
pasteboard  and  calico. 

As  for  black  Domingue,  you  think  he  was  a  capital  old 
fellow ;  and  you  think  more  of  him  and  his  bananas 
than  you  do  of  the  bursting,  throbbing  heart  of  poor 
Paul.  As  yet  Dream-life  does  not  take  hold  on  love. 
A  little  maturity  of  heart  is  wanted  to  make  up  what 


32  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  poets  call  sensibility.  If  love  should  come  to  be  a 
dangerous,  chivalric  matter,  as  in  the  case  of  Helen 
Mar  and  "Wallace,  you  can  very  easily  conceive  of  it, 
and  can  take  hold  of  all  the  little  accessories  of  male 
costume  and  embroidering  of  banners ;  but  as  for  pure 
sentiment,  such  as  lies  in  the  sweet  story  of  Bemardin 
de  St.  Pierre,  it  is  quite  beyond  you. 

The  rich,  soft  nights,  in  which  one  might  doze  in  his 
hammock,  watching  the  play  of  the  silvery  moonbeams 
upon  the  orange-leaves  and  upon  the  waves,  you  can 
understand ;  and  you  fall  to  dreaming  of  that  lovely  Isle 
of  France,  and  wondering  if  Virginia  did  not  perhaps 
have  some  relations  on  the  island,  who  raise  pine-apples, 
and  such  sort  of  things,  still  ? 

And  so  with  your  head  upon  your  hand  in  your 

quiet  garret  -  comer,  over  some  such  beguiling  story, 
your  thought  leans  away  from  the  book  into  your  own 
dreamy  cruise  over  the  sea  of  life. 


n. 

School- Dreams. 

T  is  a  proud  thing  to  go  out  from  under  the  realm 
of  a  schoohnistress,  and  to  be  enrolled  in  a  com- 
pany of  boys,  who  are  under  the  guidance  of  a  master. 
It  is  one  of  the  earliest  steps  of  worldly  pride,  which 
has  before  it  a  long  and  tedious  ladder  of  ascent.  Even 
the  advice  of  the  old  mistress,  and  the  ninepenny  book 
that  she  thrusts  into  your  hand  as  a  parting  gift,  pass  for 
nothing ;  and  her  kiss  of  adieu,  if  she  tenders  it  in  the 
sight  of  your  fellows,  will  call  up  an  angry  rush  of  blood 
to  the  cheek,  that  for  long  years  shall  drown  all  sense 
of  its  kindness. 

You  have  looked  admiringly  many  a  day  upon  the 
tall  fellows  who  play  at  the  door  of  Dr.  Bidlow's  school ; 
you  have  looked  with  reverence  —  second  only  to  that 
felt  for  the  old  village  church  —  upon  its  dark-looking, 
heavy  brick  walls.  It  seemed  to  be  redolent  of  learn- 
ing ;  and  stopping  at  times  to  gaze  upon  the  gallipots 
and  broken  retorts  at  the  second-story  window,  you 
have  pondered  in  your  boyish  way  upon  the  inscrutable 
wonders  of  Science,  and  the  ineffable  dignity  of  Dr. 
Bidlow's  brick  school ! 
2* 


34  DREAM-LIFE. 

Dr.  Bidlow  seems  to  you  to  belong  to  a  race  of 
giants  ;  and  yet  he  is  a  spare,  thin  man,  with  a  hooked 
nose,  a  large,  flat,  gold  watch-key,  a  crack  in  his  voice, 
a  wig,  and  very  dirty  wristbands.  Still  you  stand  in 
awe  at  the  mere  sight  of  him,  —  an  awe  that  is  very 
much  encouraged  by  a  report  made  to  you  by  a  small 
boy,  that "  Old  Bid "  keeps  a  large  ebony  ruler  in  his 
desk.  You  are  amazed  at  the  small  boy's  audacity ;  it 
astonishes  you  that  any  one  who  had  ever  smelt  the 
strong  fumes  of  sulphur  and  ether  in  the  Doctor's  room, 
and  had  seen  him  turn  red  vinegar  blue,  (as  they  say 
he  does,)  should  call  him  "  Old  Bid  !  " 

You  however  come  very  little  under  his  control ;  you 
enter  upon  the  proud  life,  in  the  small  boy's  depart- 
ment, under  the  dominion  of  the  English  master.  He 
is  a  different  personage  from  Dr.  Bidlow :  he  is  a  dap- 
per little  man,  who  twinkles  his  eye  in  a  peculiar  fash- 
ion, and  who  has  a  way  of  marching  about  the  school- 
room with  his  hands  crossed  behind  him,  giving  a 
playful  flirt  to  his  coat-tails.  He  wears  a  pen  tucked 
behind  his  ear  ;  his  hair  is  carefully  set  up  at  the  sides 
and  upon  the  top,  to  conceal  (as  you  think  later  in  life) 
his  diminutive  height  ;  and  he  steps  very  springily 
around  behind  the  benches,  glancing  now  and  then  at 
the  books, — cautioning  one  scholar  about  his  dog's-ears, 
and  startling  another  from  a  doze  by  a  very  loud  and 
odious  snap  of  his  forefinger  upon  the  boy's  head. 


SCHOOL-DREAMS.  36 

At  other  times  he  sticks  a  hand  ia  the  armlet  of  his 
waistcoat ;  he  brandishes  in  the  other  a  thickish  bit  of 
smootli  clierry-wood,  sometimes  dressing  his  hair  withal; 
and  again  giving  his  head  a  slight  scratch  behind  the 
ear,  while  he  takes  occasion  at  the  same  time  for  an 
oblique  glance  at  a  fat  boy  in  the  corner,  who  is  reach- 
ing down  from  his  seat  after  a  little  paper  pellet  that  has 
just  been  discharged  at  him  from  some  unknown  quar- 
ter. The  master  steals  very  cautiously  and  quickly  to 
the  rear  of  the  stooping  boy,  dreadfully  exposed  by  his 
unfortunate  position,  and  inflicts  a  stinging  blow.  A 
weak-eyed  little  scholar  on  the  next  bench  ventures  a 
modest  titter,  at  which  the  assistant  makes  a  significant 
motion  with  his  ruler, —  on  the  seat,  as  it  were,  of  an  im- 
aginary pair  of  pantaloons,  —  which  renders  the  weak- 
eyed  boy  on  a  sudden  very  insensible  to  the  recent  joke. 

You  meantime  profess  to  be  very  much  engrossed 
with  your  grammar  —  turned  upside-down ;  you  think 
it  must  have  hurt,  and  are  only  sorry  that  it  did  not 
happen  to  a  tall,  dark-faced  boy,  who  cheated  you  in  a 
swop  of  jackknives.  You  innocently  think  that  he 
must  be  a  very  bad  boy,  and  fancy  —  aided  by  a  sugges- 
tion of  the  old  nurse  at  home  on  the  same  point  —  that 
he  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows. 

There  is  a  platform  on  one  side  of  the  schoolroom, 
where  the  teacher,  sits  at  a  little  red  table  ;  and  they 
have  a  tradition  among  the  boys,  that  a  pin  properly 


36  DREAM-LIFE. 

bent  was  one  day  put  into  the  chair  of  the  English  mas- 
ter, and  that  he  did  not  wear  his  hand  in  the  armlet  of 
his  waistcoat  for  two  whole  days  thereafter.  Yet  his  air 
of  dignity  seems  proper  enough  in  a  man  of  such  eru- 
dition, and  such  grasp  of  imagination,  as  he  must  pos- 
sess. For  he  can  quote  poetry,  —  some  of  the  big 
scholars  have  heard  him  do  it ;  he  can  parse  the  whole 
of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  he  can  cipher  in  Long  Divis- 
ion, and  the  Rule  of  Three,  as  if  it  was  all  Simple 
Addition  ;  and  then,  such  a  hand  as  he  writes,  and  s"uch 
a  superb  capital  B !  It  is  hard  to  understand  how  he 
does  it. 

Sometimes  lifting  the  lid  of  your  desk,  where  you 
pretend  to  be  very  busy  with  your  papers,  you  steal  the 
reading  of  some  brief  passage  of  "  Lazy  Lawrence,"  or 
of  the  "  Hungarian  Brothers,"  and  muse  about  it  for 
hours  afterward  to  the  great  detriment  of  your  cipher- 
ing ;  or,  deeply  lost  in  the  story  of  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs," 
you  fall  to  comparing  such  villains  as  Menteith  with 
the  stout  boys  who  tease  you ;  and  you  only  wish  they 
could  come  within  reach  of  the  fierce  Kirkpatrick's 
claymore. 

But  you  are  frighted  out  of  this  stolen  reading  by  a 
circumstance  that  stirs  your  young  blood  very  strangely. 
The  master  is  looking  very  sourly  on  a  certain  morning, 
and  has  caught  sight  of  the  little  weak-eyed  boy  over 
beyond  you,  reading  "  Roderick  Random."     He  sends 


SCHOOL-DREAMS.  37 

out  for  a  long  birch  rod,  and  having  trimmed  off  the 
leaves  carefully,  —  with  a  glance  or  two  in  your  direc- 
tion, —  he  marches  up  behind  the  bench  of  the  poor 
culprit,  —  who  turns  deathly  pale,  —  grapples  him  by 
the  collar,  drags  him  out  over  the  desks,  his  limbs  dang- 
ling in  a  shocking  way  against  the  sharp  angles,  and 
having  him  fairly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  clinches 
his  rod  with  a  new,  and,  as  it  seems  to  you,  a  very  sport- 
ive grip. 

You  shudder  fearfully. 

"  Please  don't  whip  me,"  says  the  boy,  whimpering. 

"Aha !  "  says  the  smirking  pedagogue,  bringing  down 
the  stick  with  a  quick,  sharp  cut,  —  "  you  don't  like  it, 
eh?" 

The  poor  fellow  screams,  and  struggles  to  escape ; 
but  the  blows  come  faster  and  thicker.  The  blood 
tingles  in  your  finger-ends  with  indignation. 

"  Please  don't  strike  me  again,"  says  the  boy,  sobbing, 
and  taking  breath,  as  he  writhes  about  the  legs  of  the 
master  ;  "  I  won't  read  another  time." 

"  Ah,  you  won't,  sir,  —  won't  you  ?  I  don't  mean  you 
shall,  sir ; "  and  the  blows  fall  thick  and  fast,  until  the 
poor  fellow  crawls  back,  utterly  crestfallen  and  heart- 
sick, to  sob  over  his  books. 

You  grow  into  a  sudden  boldness;  you  wish  you 
were  only  large  enough  to  beat  the  master ;  you  know 
such  treatment  would  make  you  miserable ;  you  shud- 


38  DREAM-LIFE. 

der  at  the  thought  of  it ;  you  do  not  believe  he  would 
dare ;  you  know  the  other  boy  has  got  no  father.  This 
seems  to  throw  a  new  light  upon  the  matter,  but  it  only 
intensifies  your  indignation.  You  are  sure  that  no 
father  would  suffer  it ;  or,  if  you  thought  so,  it  would 
sadly  weaken  your  love  for  him.  You  pray  Heaven, 
that  it  may  never  be  brought  to  such  proof. 

Let  a  boy  once  distrust  the  love  or  the  tender- 
ness of  his  parents,  and  the  last  resort  of  his  yearning 
affections  —  so  far  as  the  world  goes  —  is  utterly  gone. 
He  is  in  the  sure  road  to  a  bitter  fate.  His  heart  will 
take  on  a  hard,  iron  covering,  that  will  flash  out  plenty 
of  fire  in  his  after  contact  with  the  world,  but  it  will 
never  —  never  melt ! 

There  are  some  tall  trees,  that  overshadow  an  angle 
of  the  schoolhouse ;  and  the  larger  scholars  play  some 
very  surprising  gymnastic  tricks  upon  their  lower  limbs : 
one  boy,  for  instance,  will  hang  for  an  incredible  length 
of  time  by  his  feet  with  his  head  down  ;  and  when  you 
tell  Charlie  of  it  at  night,  with  such  additions  as  your 
boyish  imagination  can  contrive,  the  old  nurse  is  shocked, 
and  states  very  gravely  that  it  is  dangerous,  and  that 
the  blood  all  runs  to  the  head,  and  sometimes  bursts 
out  of  the  eyes  and  mouth.  You  look  at  that  particular 
boy  with  astonishment  afterward,  and  expect  to  see  him 
some  day  burst  into  bleeding  from  the  nose  and  ears, 
and  flood  the  schoolroom  benches. 


SCHO OL-DRE  A  MS.  39 

In  time  however  jou  get  to  performing  some  modest 
experiments  yourself  upon  the  very  lowest  limbs,  tak- 
ing care  to  avoid  the  observation  of  the  larger  boys, 
who  else  might  laugh  at  you ;  you  especially  avoid  the 
notice  of  one  stout  fellow  in  pea-green  breeches,  who  is 
a  sort  of  "  bully  "  among  the  small  boys,  and  who  de- 
lights in  kicking  your  marbles  about  very  accidentally. 
He  has  a  fashion  too  of  twisting  his  handkerchief  into 
what  he  calls  a  "  snapper,"  with  a  knot  at  the  end,  and 
cracking  at  you  with  it,  very  much  to  the  irritation  of 
your  spirits  and  of  your  legs. 

Sometimes,  when  he  has  brought  you  to  an  angry 
burst  of  tears,  he  will  very  graciously  force  upon  you 
the  handl-;crchief,  and  insist  upon  your  cracking  him 
in  return  ;  which,  as  you  know  nothing  about  his  effect- 
ive method  of  making  the  knot  bite,  is  a  very  harm- 
less proposal  on  his  part. 

But  you  have  still  stronger  reason  to  remember  that 
boy.  There  are  trees,  as  I  said,  near  the  school ;  and 
you  get  the  reputation,  after  a  time,  of  a  good  climber. 
One  day  you  are  well  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  being 
dared  by  the  boys  below,  you  venture  higher  —  higher 
than  any  boy  has  ever  gone  before.  You  feel  very 
proudly,  but  just  then  catch  sight  of  the  sneering  face 
of  yoiu-  old  enemy  of  the  snapper ;  and  he  dares  you  to 
go  upon  a  limb  that  he  points  out. 

The  rest   say,  —  for  you   hear  them    plainly,  —  "  It 


40  DREAM-LIFE. 

won't  bear  him."  And  Frank,  a  great  friend  of  yours, 
shouts  loudly  to  you  not  to  try. 

"  Pho,"  says  your  tormentor,  —  "  the  little  coward !  " 

If  you  could  whip  him,  you  would  go  down  the  tree, 
and  do  it  willingly  ;  as  it  is,  you  cannot  let  him  triumph  ; 
so  you  advance  cautiously  out  upon  the  limb ;  it  bends 
and  sways  fearfully  with  your  weight  ;  presently  it 
cracks ;  you  try  to  return,  but  it  is  too  late  ;  you  feel 
yourself  going ;  your  mind  flashes  home  —  over  your 
life,  your  hope,  your  fate  —  like  lightning  ;  then  comes  a 
sense  of  dizziness,  a  succession  of  quick  blows,  and  a 
dull,  heavy  crash  ! 

You  are  conscious  of  nothing  again,  until  you  find 
yourself  in  the  great  hall  of  the  school,  covered  with 
blood,  the  old  Doctor  standing  over  you  with  a  phial, 
and  Frank  kneeling  by  you,  and  holding  your  shattered 
arm,  which  has  been  broken  by  the  fall. 

After  this  come  those  long,  weary  days  of  confine- 
ment, when  you  lie  still  through  all  the  hours  of  noon, 
looking  out  upon  the  cheerfid  sunshine  only  through 
the  windows  of  your  little  room.  Yet  it  seems  a  grand 
thing  to  have  the  whole  household  attendant  upon  you. 
The  doors  are  opened  and  shut  softly,  and  they  all  step 
noiselessly  about  your  chamber  ;  and  when  you  groan 
with  pain,  you  are  sure  of  meeting  sad,  sympathizing 
lOoks.  Your  mother  will  step  gently  to  your  side  and 
lay  her  cool,  white  hand  upon  your  forehead  ;  and  little 


SCHOOL-DREAMS.  41 

Nelly  will  gaze  at  you  from  the  foot  of  your  bed  with  a 
sad  earnestness,  and  with  tears  of  pity  in  her  soft  hazel 
eyes.  And  afterward,  as  your  pain  passes  away,  she 
will  bring  you  her  prettiest  books,  and  fresh  flowers, 
and  whatever  she  knows  you  will  love. 

But  it  is  dreadful  when  you  wake  at  night  from  your 
feverish  slumber,  and  see  nothing  but  the  spectral  shad- 
ows that  the  sick-lamp  upon  the  hearth  throws  aslant 
the  walls  ;  and  hear  nothing  but  the  heavy  breathing 
of  the  old  nurse  in  the  easy-chair,  and  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  upon  the  mantel !  Then  silence  and  the 
night  crowd  upon  your  soul  drearily.  But  your  thought 
is  active.  It  shapes  at  your  bedside  the  loved  figure 
of  your  mother,  or  it  calls  up  the  whole  company  of 
Dr.  Bidlow's  boys  and  weeks  of  study  or  of  play  group 
like  magic  on  your  quickened  vision  ;  then  a  twinge 
of  pain  will  call  again  the  dreariness,  and  your  head 
tosses  upon  the  pillow,  and  your  eye  searches  the  gloom 
vainly  for  pleasant  faces ;  and  your  fears  brood  on  that 
drearier,  coming  night  of  Death  —  far  longer,  and  far 
more  cheerless  than  this. 

But  even  here  the  memory  of  some  little  prayer  you 
have  been  taught,  which  promises  a  Morning  after  the 
Night,  comes  to  your  throbbing  brain  ;  and  its  murmur 
on  your  fevered  lips,  as  you  breathe  it,  soothes  like  a 
caress  of  angels,  and  wooes  you  to  smiles  and  sleep. 

As   the  days  pass,  you  grow  stronger;  and    Frank 


42  DREAM-LIFE. 

comes  in  to  tell  you  of  the  school,  and  that  your  old 
tormentor  has  been  expelled ;  and  you  grow  into  a 
strong  friendship  with  Frank,  and  you  think  of  your- 
selves as  a  new  Damon  and  Pythias,  and  that  you  will 
some  day  live  together  in  a  fine  house,  with  plenty  of 
horses,  and  plenty  of  chestnut-trees.  Alas,  the  boy 
counts  little  on  those  later  and  bitter  fates  of  life,  which 
sever  his  early  friendships  like  wisps  of  straw ! 

At  other  times,  with  your  eye  upon  the  sleek,  trim 
figure  of  the  Doctor,  and  upon  his  huge  bunch  of  watch- 
seals,  you  think  you  will  some  day  be  a  Doctor  ;  and 
that  with  a  wife  and  children,  and  a  respectable  gig, 
and  gold  watch,  with  seals  to  match,  you  would  needs 
be  a  very  happy  fellow. 

And  with  such  fancies  drifting  on  your  thought,  you 
count  for  the  hundredth  time  the  figures  upon  the  cur- 
tains of  your  bed ;  you  trace  out  the  flower-wreaths 
upon  the  paper-hangings  of  your  room ;  your  eyes  rest 
idly  on  the  cat  pla}nng  with  the  fringe  of  the  curtain ; 
you  see  your  mother  sitting  with  her  needle-work  beside 
the  fire ;  you  watch  the  sunbeams,  as  they  drift  along 
the  carpet,  from  morning  until  noon  ;  and  from  noon 
till  night  you  watch  them  playing  on  the  leaves,  and 
dropping  spangles  on  the  lawn  ;  and  as  you  watch  — 
vou  dream. 


m. 

Boy  Sentiment. 

WEEKS  and  even  years  of  your  boyhood  roll  on, 
in  the  which  your  dreams  are  growing  wider  and 
grander,  —  even  as  the  Spring,  which  I  have  made  the 
type  of  the  boy-age,  is  stretching  its  foliage  farther  and 
farther,  and  dropping  longer  and  heavier  shadows  on 
the  land. 

Nelly,  that  sweet  sister,  has.gro\vn  into  your  heart 
strangely ;  and  you  think  that  all  they  write  in  their 
books  about  love  cannot  equal  your  fondness  for  little 
Nelly.  She  is  pretty,  they  say  ;  but  what  do  you  care 
for  her  prettiness  ?  She  is  so  good,  so  kind,  so  watch- 
ful of  all  your  wants,  so  willing  to  yield  to  your  haughty 
claims ! 

But,  alas!  it  is  only  when  this  sisterly  love  is  lost 
forever,  —  only  when  the  inexorable  world  separates  a 
family,  and  tosses  it  upon  the  waves  of  fate  to  wide- 
lying  distances,  perhaps  to  graves,  —  that  a  man  feels, 
what  a  boy  can  never  know,  —  the  disinterested  and 
abiding  affection  of  a  sister. 

All  this  that  I  have  set  down  comes  back  to  you  long 


44  DREAM-LIFE. 

afterward,  when  you  recall  with  tears  of  regret  your 
reproachful  words,  or  some  swift  outbreak  of  passion. 

Little  Madge  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's,  —  a  mischievous, 
blue-eyed  hoyden.  They  tease  you  about  Madge.  You 
do  not  of  course  care  one  straw  for  her,  but  yet  it  is 
rather  pleasant  to  be  teased  thus.  Nelly  never  does 
this;  oh  no,  not  she.  I  do  not  know  but  in  the  age  of 
childhood  the  sister  is  jealous  of  the  affections  of  a 
brother,  and  would  keep  his  heart  wholly  at  home,  until, 
suddenly  and  strangely,  she  finds  her  own  wandering. 

But  after  all  Madge  is  pretty,  and  there  is  something 
taking  in  her  name.  Old  people,  and  very  precise 
people,  call  her  Margaret  Boyne.  But  you  do  not :  it 
is  only  plain  Madge  ;  it  sounds  like  her,  very  rapid  and 
mischievous.  It  would  be  the  most  absurd  thing  in  the 
world  for  you  to  like  her,  for  she  teases  you  in  innumer- 
able ways  :  she  laughs  at  your  big  shoes,  (such  a  sweet 
little  foot  as  she  has  !)  and  she  pins  strips  of  paper  on 
your  coat-collar ;  and  time  and  again  she  has  worn  off 
your  hat  in  triumph,  very  well  knowing  that  you — such 
a  quiet  body,  and  so  much  afraid  of  her  —  will  never 
venture  upon  any  liberties  with  her  gypsy  bonnet. 

You  sometimes  wish  in  your  vexation,  as  you  see  her 
running,  that  she  would  fall  and  hurt  herself  badly ;  but 
the  next  moment  it  seems  a  very  wicked  wish,  and  you 
renounce  it.  Once  she  did  come  very  near  it.  You 
were  all  playing  together  by  the  big  swing ;  (how  plainly 


BOY  SENTIMENT.  45 

it  swings  in  your  memory  now !)  Madge  had  the  seat, 
and  you  were  famous  for  running  under  with  a  long 
push,  which  Madge  liked  better  than  anything  else  ;  — 
well,  you  have  half  run  over  the  ground  when,  crash  ! 
comes  the  swing,  and  poor  Madge  with  it !  You  fairly 
scream  as  you  catch  her  up.  But  she  is  not  hurt,  — 
only  a  cry  of  fright,  and  a  little  sprain  of  that  fairy 
ankle ;  and  as  she  brushes  away  the  tears  and  those 
flaxen  curls,  and  breaks  into  a  merry  laugh,  —  half  at 
your  woe-worn  face,  and  half  in  vexation  at  herself,  — 
and  leans  her  hand  (such  a  hand !)  upon  your  shoulder, 
to  limp  away  into  the  shade,  you  dream  your  first 
dream  of  love. 

But  it  is  only  a  dream,  not  at  all  acknowledged  by 
you;  she  is  three  or  four  years  your  junior,— too  young 
altogether.  It  is  very  absurd  to  talk  about  it.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  said  of  Madge,  only  —  Madge  !  The 
name  does  it. 

It  is  rather  a  pretty  name  to  write.  You  are  fond  of 
making  capital  M's  ;  and  sometimes  you  follow  it  with 
a  capital  A.  Then  you  practise  a  little  upon  a  D,  and 
perhaps  back  it  up  with  a  G.  Of  course  it  is  the  merest 
accident  that  these  letters  come  together.  It  seems 
funny  to  you  —  very.  And  as  a  proof  that  they  are 
made  at  random,  you  make  a  T  or  an  R  before  them, 
and  some  other  quite  irrelevant  letters  after  it. 

Finally,  as  a  sort  of  security  against  all  suspicion,  you 


46  DREAM-LIFE. 

cross  it  out,  —  cross  it  a  great  many  ways,  even  holding 
it  up  to  the  light  to  see  tliat  there  should  be  no  air  of 
intention  about  it. 

You  need   have  no  fear,   Clarence,  that  your 

hieroglyphics  will  be  studied  so  closely.  Accidental  as 
they  are,  you  are  very  much  more  interested  in  them 
than  any  one  else. 

It  is  a  common  fallacy  of  this  dream  in  most 

stages  of  life,  that  a  vast  number  of  persons  employ 
their  time  chiefly  in  spying  out  its  operations. 

Yet  Madge  cares  nothing  about  you,  that  you  know 
of  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  reason,  though  you  do  not 
suspect  it  then,  why  you  care  so  much  for  her.  At  any 
rate  she  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's,  and  it  is  your  duty  not 
to  dislike  her.  Nelly  too,  sweet  Nelly,  gets  an  inkling 
of  matters,  —  for  sisters  are  very  shrewd  in  suspicions 
of  this  sort,  shrewder  than  brothers  or  fathers,  —  and, 
like  the  good,  kind  girl  that  she  is,  she  wishes  to  humor 
even  your  weakness. 

Madge  drops  in  to  tea  quite  often  :  Nelly  has  some- 
thing in  particular  to  show  her,  two  or  three  times 
a  week.  Good  Nelly!  perhaps  she  is  making  your 
troubles  all  the  greater.  You  gather  large  bunches  of 
grapes  for  Madge —  because  she  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's— 
which  she  does  n't  want  at  all,  and  very  pretty  bou- 
quets, which  she  either  drops  or  pulls  to  pieces. 

In  the  presence  of  your  Mher  one  day  you  drop 


BOY  SENTIMENT.  47 

some  hint  about  Madge  in  a  very  careless  way, —  a  way 
shrewdly  calculated  to  lay  all  suspicion, —  at  which  your 
father  laughs.  This  is  odd ;  it  makes  you  wonder  if 
your  father  was  ever  in  love  himself 

You  rather  think  that  he  has  been. 

Madge's  father  is  dead,  and  her  mother  is  poor ;  and 
you  sometimes  dream  how  — whatever  your  father  may 
think  or  feel  —  you  will  some  day  make  a  large  fortune, 
in  some  very  easy  way,  and  build  a  snug  cottage,  and 
have  one  horse  for  your  carriage  and  one  for  your  wife, 
'not  Madge,  of  course  —  that  is  absurd,)  and  a  turtle- 
shell  cat  for  your  wife's  mother,  and  a  pretty  gate  to  the 
front  yard,  and  plenty  of  shrubbery ;  and  how  your 
wife  will  come  dancing  down  the  path  to  meet  you,  — 
as  the  Wife  does  in  Mr.  Irving's  "  Sketch-Book,"  — 
and  how  she  will  have  a  harp  in  the  parlor,  and  will 
wear  white  dresses  with  a  blue  sash. 

Poor  Clarence,   it   never  occurs   to   you   that 

even  Madge  may  grow  fat,  and  wear  check  aprons,  and 
snuffy-brown  dresses  of  woollen  stuff,  and  twist  her  hair 
in  yellow  papers !  Oh,  no,  boyhood  has  no  such  dreams 
as  that ! 

I  shall  leave  you  here  in  the  middle  of  your  first 
foray  into  the  world  of  sentiment,  with  those  wicked 
blue  eyes  chasing  rainbows  over  your  heart,  and  those 
little  feet  walking  every  day  into  your  affections.  I 
shall  leave  you,  before  the  affair  has  ripened  into  any 


48  DREAM-LIFE. 

overtures,  and  while  there  is  only  a  sixpence  split  in 
halves,  and  tied  about  your  neck  and  Maggie's  neck, 
to  bind  your  destinies  together. 

If  I  even  hinted  at  any  probability  of  your  marrying 
her,  or  of  your  not  marrying  her,  you  would  be  very 
likely  to  dispute  me.  One  knows  his  own  feelings,  or 
thinks  he  does,  so  much  better  than  any  one  can  tell 
him! 


IV. 

A  Friend  made  and  Friend  Lost. 

TO  visit,  is  a  great  thing  in  the  boy  calendar ;  —  not, 
to  visit  this  or  that  neighbor,  —  to  drink  tea,  or 
eat  strav/berries,  or  play  at  draughts,  —  but  to  go 
away  on  a  visit  in  a  coach,  with  a  trunk,  and  a  great- 
coat, and  an  umbrella  —  this  is  large! 

It  makes  no  dilierence  that  they  wish  to  be  rid  of 
your  noise,  now  that  Charlie  is  sick  of  a  fever:  the 
reason  is  not  at  all  in  the  way  of  your  pride  of  visiting. 
You  are  to  have  a  long  ride  in  a  coach,  and  eat  a  din- 
ner at  a  tavern,  and  to  see  a  new  town  almost  as  large 
as  the  one  you  live  in ;  and  you  are  to  make  new  ac- 
quaintances. In  short,  you  are  to  see  the  world:  a 
very  proud  thing  it  is  to  see  the  world ! 

As  you  journey  on,  after  bidding  your  friends  adieu, 
and  as  you  see  fences  and  houses  to  which  you  have 
not  been  used,  you  think  them  very  odd  indeed :  but 
it  occurs  to  you  that  the  geographies  speak  of  very 
various  national  characteristics,  and  you  are  greatly 
gratified  with  this  opportunity  of  verifying  your  study. 
You  see  new  crops  too,  perhaps  a  broad-leaved  tobacco- 
field,  which  reminds  you  pleasantly  of  the  luxuriant 
3 


50  .        DREAaI-LIFE. 

vegetation  of  the  tropics,  spoken  of  by  Peter  Parley, 
and  others. 

As  for  the  houses  and  barns  in  the  new  town,  they 
quite  startle  you  with  their  strangeness  :  you  observe 
that  some  of  the  latter,  instead  of  having  one  stable- 
door,  have  five  or  six,  —  a  fact  which  puzzles  you  very 
much  indeed.  You  observe  further  that  the  houses 
many  of  them  have  balustrades  upon  the  tojj,  which 
seems  to  you  a  very  wonderful  adaptation  to  the  wants 
of  boys  who  wish  to  fly  kites,  or  to  play  upon  the  roof. 
You  notice  with  special  favor  one  very  low  roof,  which 
you  might  climb  upon  by  a  mere  plank,  and  you  think 
the  boys  whose  father  lives  in  that  house  are  very  for- 
tunate boys. 

Your  old  aunt,  whom  you  visit,  you  think,  wears  a 
very  queer  cap,  being  altogether  different  from  that  of 
the  old  nurse,  or  of  Mrs.  Boyne,  —  Madge's  mother. 
As  for  the  house  she  lives  in,  it  is  quite  wonderful. 
There  are  such  an  immense  number  of  closets,  and 
closets  within  closets,  reminding  you  of  the  mysteries 
of  "  Rinaldo  Rinaldini."  Beside  which  there  are  im- 
mensely curious  bits  of  old  furniture  —  so  black  and 
heavy,  and  with  such  curious  carving  !  —  and  you  think 
of  the  old  wainscot  in  the  "  Children  of  the  Abbey." 
You  think  you  will  never  tire  of  rambling  about  in  its 
odd  corners,  and  of  what  glorious  stories  you  will  have 
to  tell  of  it  when  you  go  back  to  Nelly  and  Charlie. 


A   FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST.     51 

As  for  acquaintances,  you  fall  in  the  very  first  day 
with  a  tall  boy  next  door,  called  Nat,  which  seems  an 
extraordinary  name.  Besides,  he  has  travelled  ;  and  as 
he  sits  v.ith  you  on  the  summer  nights  under  the  linden- 
trees,  he  tells  you  gorgeous  stories  of  the  things  he  has 
seen.  He  has  made  the  voyage  to  London ;  and  he 
talks  about  the  ship  (a  real  ship)  and  starboard  and 
larboard,  and  the  spanker,  in  a  way  quite  surprising ; 
and  he  takes  the  stern-oar  in  the  little  skiff,  when  you 
row  off  in  the  cove  abreast  of  the  town,  in  a  most  sea- 
man-like way. 

He  bewilders  you,  too,  with  his  talk  about  the  great 
bridges  of  London,  —  London  Bridge  specially,  where 
they  sell  kids  for  a  penny ;  which  story  your  new  ac- 
quaintance unfortunately  does  not  confirm.  You  have 
read  of  these  bridges,  and  seen  pictures  of  them  in 
the  "Wonders  of  the  World";  but  then  Nat  has  seen 
them  with  his  own  eyes :  he  has  literally  walked  over 
London  Bridge,  on  his  own  feet !  You  look  at  his 
very  shoes  in  wonderment,  and  are  surprised  you  do 
not  find  some  startling  difference  between  those  shoes 
and  your  shoes.  But  there  is  none,  —  only  yours  are  a 
trifle  stouter  in  the  welt.  You  think  Nat  one  of  the 
fortunate  boys  of  this  world,  —  born,  as  your  old  nurse 
used  to  say,  with  a  gold  spoon  in  his  mouth. 

Beside  Nat  there  is  a  girl  lives  over  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  named  Jenny,  —  with  an  eye  as  black 


52  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  a  coal,  and  a  half  ^  year  older  than  you,  but  about 
your  height,  —  whom  you  fancy  amazingly. 

She  has  any  quantity  of  toys,  that  she  lets  you  play 
with  as  if  they  were  your  own.  And  she  has  an  odd 
old  uncle,  who  sometimes  makes  you  stand  up  together, 
and  then  marries  you  after  his  fashion,  —  much  to  the 
amusement  of  a  grown-up  house-maid,  whenever  she 
gets  a  peep  at  the  perfoiinance.  And  it  makes  you 
somewhat  proud  to  hear  her  called  your  wife ;  and  you 
wonder  to  yourself,  dreamily,  if  it  won't  be  true  some 
day  or  other. 

Fie,   Clarence,  where   is   your   split   sixpence, 

and  your  blue  ribbon  ! 

Jenny  is  romantic,  and  talks  of  "  Thaddeus  of  War- 
saw "  in  a  very  touching  manner,  and  promises  to  lend 
you  the  book.  She  folds  billets  in  a  lover's  fashion, 
and  practises  love-knots  upon  her  bonnet-strings.  She 
looks  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  very  often,  and 
sighs.  She  is  frequently  by  herself,  and  pulls  flowers 
to  pieces.  She  has  great  pity  for  middle-aged  bach- 
elors, and  thinks  them  all  disappointed  men. 

After  a  time  she  writes  notes  to  you,  begging  you 
would  answer  them  at  the  earliest  possible  moment, 
and  signs  herself —  "  your  attached  Jenny."  She  takes 
the  marriage  farce  of  her  uncle  in  a  cold  way,  as 
trifling  with  a  very  serious  subject,  and  looks  tenderly 
at  you.     She  is  very  much  shocked  when  her  uncle 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST.     53 

oflfers  to  kiss  her;  and  when  he  proposes  it  to  you, 
she  is  equally  indignant,  but  —  with  a  great  change  of 
color. 

Nat  says  one  day  in  a  confidential  conversation  that 
it  won't  do  to  marry  a  woman  six  months  older  than 
yourself;  and  this,  coming  from  Nat  who  has  been  to 
London,  rather  staggers  you.  You  sometimes  think 
that  you  would  like  to  marry  Madge  and  Jenny  both, 
if  the  thing  were  possible,  for  Nat  says  they  sometimes 
do  so  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  though  he  has  never 
seen  it  himself 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  will  have  no  such  weakness 

as  you  grow  older ;  you  will  find  that  Providence  has 
charitably  so  tempered  our  affections,  that  every  man 
of  only  ordinary  nerve  will  be  amply  satisfied  with  a 
single  wife. 

All  this  time  —  for  you  are  making  your  visit  a  very 
long  one,  so  that  autumn  has  come,  and  the  nights  are 
growing  cool,  and  Jenny  and  yourself  are  transferring 
your  little  coquetries  to  the  chimney-corner  —  poor 
Charlie  lies  sick  at  home.  Boyhood,  thank  Heaven! 
does  not  suffer  severely  from  sympathy  when  the  object 
is  remote.  And  those  letters  from  the  mother,  telling 
you  that  Charlie  cannot  play,  —  cannot  talk  even  as  he 
used  to  do,  —  and  that  perhaps  his  "  Heavenly  Father 
will  take  him  away  to  be  with  him  in  the  better  world," 
disturb  you  for  a  time  only.     Sometimes  however  they 


54  DREAM-LIFE. 

come  back  to  your  thought  on  a  wakeful  night,  and 
you  dream  about  his  sufiering,  and  think  —  why  it  is 
not  you,  but  CharUe,  who  is  sick  ?  The  thought  puzzles 
you ;  and  well  it  may,  for  in  it  lies  the  whole  mystery 
of  our  fate. 

Those  letters  grow  more  and  more  discouraging,  and 
the  kind  admonitions  of  your  mother  grow  more  earnest, 
as  if  (though  the  thought  does  not  come  to  you  until 
years  afterward)  she  was  preparing  herself  to  fasten 
upon  you  that  surplus  of  affection  which  she  fears  may 
soon  be  withdrawn  forever  from  the  sick  child. 

It  is  on  a  frosty,  bleak  evening,  when  you  are  playing 
with  Nat,  that  the  letter  reaches  you  which  says  Charlie 
is  growing  worse,  and  that  you  must  come  to  your  home. 
It  makes  a  dreamy  night  for  you  —  fancying  how  Charlie 
will  look,  and  if  sickness  has  altered  him  much,  and  if 
he  will  not  be  well  by  Christmas.  From  this  you  fall 
away  in  your  reverie  to  the  odd  old  house  and  its  secret 
cupboards,  and  your  aunt's  queer  caps ;  then  come  up 
those  black  eyes  of  "your  attached  Jenny,"  and  you 
think  it  a  pity  that  she  is  six  month's  older  than  you ; 
and  again  —  as  you  recall  one  of  her  sighs  —  you  think 
that  six  months  are  not  much  after  all ! 

You  bid  her  good-bye,  with  a  little  sentiment  swelling 
in  your  throat,  and  are  mortally  afraid  Nat  will  see 
your  lip  tremble.  Of  course  you  promise  to  write,  and 
squeeze  her  hand  with  an  honesty  you  do  not  think  of 
doubting  —  for  weeks. 


A   FRIEND   MADE   AND   FRIEND   LOST,     r,:') 

It  is  a  dull,  cold  ride,  that  day,  for  you.  The  winds 
sweep  over  the  withered  cornfields  with  a  harsh,  chilly 
whistle,  and  the  surfaces  of  the  little  pools  by  the 
roadside  are  tossed  up  into  cold  blue  wrinkles  of  water. 
Here  and  there  a  flock  of  quail^  with  their  feathers 
ruffled  in  the  autumn  gusts,  tread  through  the  hard,  dry 
stubble  of  an  oatfield ;  or,  startled  by  the  snap  of  the 
driver's  whip,  they  stare  a  moment  at  the  coach,  then 
whir  away  down  the  cold  current  of  the  wind.  The 
blue  jays  scream  from  the  roadside  oaks,  and  the  last 
of  the  blue  and  purple  asters  shiver  along  the  wall. 
And  as  the  sun  sinks,  reddening  all  the  western  clouds 
to  the  color  of  the  frosted  maples,  light  lines  of  the 
Aurora  gush  up  from  the  northern  hills,  and  trail  their 
splintered  fingers  far  over  the  autimm  sky. 

It  is  quite  dark  when  you  reach  home,  but  you  see 
the  bright  reflection  of  a  fire  within,  and  presently  at 
the  open  door  Nelly  clapping  her  hands  for  welcome. 
But  there  are  sad  faces  when  you  enter.  Your  mother 
folds  you  to  her  heart ;  but  at  your  first  noisy  outburst 
of  joy  puts  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  whispers  poor 
Charlie's  name.  The  Doctor  you  see  too,  slipping  softly 
out  of  the  bedroom-door,  with  glasses  in  his  hand ;  and 
—  you  hardly  know  how  —  your  spirits  grow  sad,  and 
your  heart  gravitates  to  the  heavy  air  of  all  about  you. 

You  cannot  see  Charlie,  Nelly  says  ;  —  and  you  can- 
not in  the  quiet  parlor  tell  Nelly  a  single  one  of  the 


56  DREAM-LIFE. 

many  things,  which  you  had  hoped  to  tell  her.  She 
says,  —  "  Charlie  has  grown  so  thin  and  so  pale,  you 
would  never  know  him."  You  listen  to  her,  but  you 
cannot  talk :  she  asks  you  what  you  have  seen,  and  you 
begin,  for  a  moment  joyously ;  but  when  they  open  the 
door  of  the  sick-room,  and  you  hear  a  faint  sigh,  you 
cannot  go  on.  You  sit  still,  with  your  hand  in  Nelly's, 
and  look  thoughtfully  into  the  blaze. 

You  drop  to  sleep  after  that  day's  fatigue,  with  singu- 
lar and  perplexed  fancies  haunting  you  ;  and  when  you 
wake  up  with  a  shudder  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  you 
have  a  fancy  that  Charlie. is  really  dead:  you  dream  of 
seeing  him  pale  and  thin,  as  Nelly  described  him,  and 
with  the  starched  grave-clothes  on  him.  You  toss  over 
in  your  bed,  and  grow  hot  and  feverish.  You  cannot 
sleep ;  and  you  get  up  stealthily,  and  creep  down-stairs. 
A  light  is  burning  in  the  hall :  the  bedroom-door  stands 
half  open,  and  you  listen  —  fancying  you  hear  a  whisper. 
You  steal  on  through  the  hall,  and  edge  around  the  side 
of  the  door.  A  little  lamp  is  flickering  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  gaunt  shadow  of  the  bedstead  lies  dark  upon 
the  ceiling.  Your  mother  is  in  her  chair  with  her 
head  upon  her  hand  —  though  it  is  long  after  midnight. 
The  Doctor  is  standing  with  his  back  toward  you,  and 
with  Charlie's  little  wrist  in  his  fingers ;  and  you  hear 
hard  breathing,  and  now  and  then  a  low  sigh  from  your 
mother's  chair. 


A   FRIEND  MADE   AND  FRIEND  LOST.    57 

An  occasional  gleam  of  firelight  makes  the  gaunt 
shadows  stagger  ou  the  wall,  like  something  spectral. 
You  look  wildly  at  them,  and  at  the  hed  where  your 
own  brother  —  your  laughing,  gay-hearted  brother  —  is 
lying.  You  long  to  see  him,  and  sidle  up  softly  a  step 
or  two ;  but  your  mother's  ear  has  caught  the  sound, 
and  she  beckons  you  to  her,  and  folds  you  again  in  her 
embrace.  You  whisper  to  her  what  you  wish.  She 
rises,  and  takes  you  by  the  hand,  to  lead  you  to  the 
bedside. 

The  Doctor  looks  very  solemnly  as  we  approach.  He 
takes  out  his  watch.  He  is  not  counting  Charlie's  pulse, 
for  lie  has  dropped  his  hand,  and  it  lies  carelessly,  but 
oh,  how  thin  !  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

He  shakes  his  head  mournfully  at  your  mother ;  and 
she  springs  forward,  dropping  your  hand,  and  lays  her 
fingers  upon  the  forehead  of  the  boy,  and  passes  her 
hand  over  his  mouth. 

"  Is  he  asleep,  Doctor  ?  "  she  says  in  a  tone  you  do 
not  know. 

"  Be  calm,  madam."     The  Doctor  is  very  calm. 

"  I  am  calm,"  says  your  mother ;  but  you  do  not  think 
t,  for  you  see  her  tremble  very  plainly. 

"  Dear  madam,  he  will  never  waken  in  this  world !  " 

There  is  no  cry,  —  only  a  bowing  down  of  your 
mother's  head  upon  the  body  of  poor  dead  Charlie  !  — 
and  only  when  you  see  her  form  shake  and  quiver  with 
3* 


58  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  deep,  smothered  sobs,  your  crying  bursts  forth  loud 
and  strong. 

The  Doctor  hfts  you  in  his  arms,  that  you  may  see 
that  pale  head,  —  those  blue  eyes  all  sunken,  —  that 
flaxen  hair  gone,  —  those  white  lips  pinched  and  hard  ! 
—  Never,  never  will  the  boy  forget  his  first  terrible 
sight  of  Death  ! 

In  your  silent  chamber,  after  the  storm  of  sobs  has 
wearied  you,  the  boy-dreams  are  strange  and  earnest. 
They  take  hold  on  that  awful  Visitant,  —  that  strange 
slipping  away  from  life,  of  which  we  know  so  little,  and 
yet  know,  alas,  so  much  !  Charlie  that  was  your  brother, 
is  now  only  a  name :  perhaps  he  is  an  angel ;  perhaps 
(for  the  old  nurse  has  said  it  when  he  was  ugly  —  and 
now  you  hate  her  for  it)  he  is  with  Satan  I 

But  you  are  sure  this  cannot  be :  you  are  sure  that 
God,  who  made  him  suffer,  would  not  now  quicken  and 
multiply  his  suffering.  It  agrees  with  your  religion  to 
think  so  ;  and  just  now  you  want  your  religion  to  help 
you  all  it  can. 

You  toss  in  your  bed,  thinking  over  and  over  of  that 
strange  thing  —  Death  ;  and  that  perhaps  it  may  over- 
take you  before  you  are  a  man  ;  and  you  sob  out  those 
prayers  (you  scarce  know  why)  which  ask  God  to  keep 
life  in  you.  You  think  the  involuntary  fear,  that  makes 
your  little  prayer  full  of  sobs,  is  a  holy  feeling ;  —  and  so 
it  is  a  holy  feeling,  —  the  same  feeling  which  makes  a 


A  FRIEND  MADE   AXD  FRIEND  LOST.    59 

stricken  child  yearn  for  the  embrace  and  the  protec- 
tion of  a  Parent.  But  you  will  find  there  are  those 
canting  ones  trying  to  persuade  you,  at  a  later  day,  that 
it  is  a  mere  animal  fear,  and  not  to  be  cherished. 

You  feel  an  access  of  goodness  growing  out  of  your 
boyish  grief;  you  feel  right-minded  ;  it  seems  as  if  your 
little  brother  in  going  to  Heaven  had  opened  a  path- 
way thither,  down  which  goodness  comes  streaming  over 
your  soul. 

You  think  how  good  a  life  you  will  lead;  and  you 
map  out  great  purposes,  spreading  themselves  over  the 
school-weeks  of  your  remaining  boyhood ;  and  you  love 
your  friends,  or  seem  to,  far  more  dearly  than  you  ever 
loved  them  before  ;  and  you  forgive  the  boy  who  pro- 
voked you  to  that  sad  fall  from  the  oak,  and  you  forgive 
him  all  his  wearisome  teasings.  But  you  cannot  forgive 
yourself  for  some  harsh  words  that  you  have  once  spoken 
to  Charlie  ;  still  less  can  you  forgive  yourself  for  having 
once  struck  him  in  passion  with  your  fist.  You  cannot 
forget  his  sobs  then  ;  —  if  he  were  only  alive  one  little 
instant  to  let  you  say,  — "  Charlie,  will  you  forgive 
me  ?" 

Yourself  you  cannot  forgive;  and  sobbing  over  it, 
and  murmuring  "  Dear,  dear  Charlie ! "  you  drop  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 


V. 

Bay  Beligion. 

IS  any  weak  soul  frightened,  that  I  should  write  of 
the  Religion  of  the  boy  ?  How  indeed  could  I  cover 
the  field  of  his  moral  or  intellectual  growth,  if  I  left 
unnoticed  those  dreams  of  futurity  and  of  goodness, 
which  come  sometimes  to  his  quieter  moments,  and 
oftener  to  his  hours  of  vexation  and  trouble  ?  It  would 
be  as  wise  to  describe  the  season  of  Spring  with  no  note 
of  the  silent  influences  of  that  burning  Day-god  which 
is  melting  day  by  day  the  shattered  ice-drifts  of  "Win- 
ter, —  which  is  filling  every  bud  with  succulence,  and 
painting  one  flower  with  crimson,  and  another  with 
white. 

I  know  there  is  a  feeling  —  by  much  too  general  as  it 
seems  to  me  —  that  the  subject  may  not  be  approached 
except  through  the  dicta  of  certain  ecclesiastic  bodies, 
and  that  the  language  which  touches  it  must  not  be 
that  every-day  language  which  mirrors  the  vitality  of 
our  thought,  but  should  have  some  twist  of  that  theo- 
logic  mannerism,  which  is  as  cold  to  the  boy  as  to  the 
busy  man  of  the  world. 


SOY  RELIGION.  61 

I  know  very  well  that  a  great  many  good  souls  will 
call  levity  what  I  call  honesty,  and  will  abjure  that 
familiar  handling  of  the  boy's  lien  upon  Eternity  which 
my  story  will  show.  But  1  shail  feel  sure,  that,  in  keep- 
ing true  to  Nature  with  word  and  with  thought,  I  shall 
in  no  way  offend  against  those  highest  truths  to  which 
all  truthfulness  is  kindred. 

You  have  Christian  teachers,  who  speak  always  rev- 
erently of  the  Bible  ;  you  grow  up  in  the  hearing  of 
daily  prayers ;  nay,  you  are  perhaps  taught  to  say  them. 

Sometimes  they  have  a  meaning,  and  sometimes  they 
have  none.  They  have  a  meaning  when  your  heart  is 
troubled,  when  a  grief  or  a  wrong  weighs  upon  you  : 
then  the  keeping  of  the  Father,  which  you  implore, 
seems  to  come  from  the  bottom  of  your  soul ;  and  your 
eye  suffuses  with  such  tears  of  feeling  as  you  count 
holy,  and  as  you  love  to  cherish  in  your  memory. 

But  they  have  no  meaning  when  some  trifling  vexa- 
tion angers  you,  and  a  distaste  for  all  about  you  breeds 
a  distaste  for  all  above  you.  In  the  long  hours  of 
toilsome  days  little  thought  comes  over  you  of  the  morn- 
ing" prayer ;  and  only  when  evening  deepens  its  shad- 
ows, and  your  boyish  vexations  fatigue  you  to  thought- 
fulness,  do  you  dream  of  that  coming  and  endless  night, 
to  which  —  they  tell  yoii  —  prayers  soften  the  way. 

Sometimes  upon  a  Summer  Sunday,  when  you  are 
wakeful  upon  your  seat  in  church,  with  some  strong- 


82  DREAM-LIFE. 

worded  preacher  who  says  things  that  half  fright  you, 
it  occurs  to  you  to  consider  how  much  goodness  you  are 
made  of;  and  whether  there  be  enough  of  it  after  all 
to  carry  you  safely  away  from  the  clutch  of  Evil  ?  And 
straightway  you  reckon  up  those  friendships  where  your 
heart  lies  ;  you  know  you  are  a  true  and  honest  friend 
to  Frank  ;  and  you  love  your  mother,  and  your  father  : 
as  for  Nelly,  Heaven  knows,  you  could  not  contrive  a 
way  to  love  her  better  than  you  do. 

You  dare  not  take  much  credit  to  yourself  for  the 
love  of  little  Madge,  —  partly  because  you  have  some- 
times caught  yourself  trying  —  not  to  love  her  ;  and 
partly  because  the  black-eyed  Jenny  comes  in  the  way. 
Yet  you  can  find  no  command  in  the  Catechism  to  love 
one  o-irl  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  girls.  It  is  some- 
what doubtful  if  you  ever  do  find  it.  But  as  for  loving 
some  half-dozen  you  could  name,  whose  images  drift 
throuo-h  your  thought,  in  dirty,  salmon-colored  frocks, 
and  slovenly  shoes,  it  is  quite  impossible ;  and  suddenly 
this  thought,  coupled  with  a  lingering  remembrance  of 
the  pea-green  pantaloons,  utterly  breaks  down  your 
hopes. 

Yet  you  muse  again,  —  there  are  plenty  of  good 
people,  as  the  times  go,  who  have  their  dislikes,  and 
who  speak  them  too.  Even  the  sharp-talking  clergy- 
man you  have  heard  say  some  very  sour  things  about 
his  landlord,  who  raised  his  rent  the  last  year.     And 


BOY  RELIGION.  63 

you  know  that  he  did  not  talk  as  mildly  as  he  does  in 
the  church,  when  he  found  Frank  and  yourself  quietly 
filching  a  few  of  his  peaches  through  the  orchard  fence. 

But  your  clergyman  will  say  perhaps,  with  what 
seems  to  you  quite  unnecessary  coldness,  that  goodness 
is  not  to  be  reckoned  in  your  chances  of  safety ;  that 
there  is  a  Higher  Goodness,  whose  merit  is  AU-Suffi- 
cient.  This  puzzles  you  sadly ;  nor  will  you  escape  the 
puzzle,  until,  in  the  presence  of  the  Home  altar,  which 
seems  to  guard  you,  as  the  Lares  guarded  Roman  chil- 
dren, you  feel  —  you  cannot  tell  how  —  that  good  ac- 
tions must  spring  from  good  sources;  and  that  those 
sources  must  lie  in  that  Heaven  toward  which  your 
boyish  spiiii;  yearns,  as  you  kneel  at  yom-  mother's  side. 

Conscience  too  is  all  the  while  approving  you  for 
deeds  well  done  ;  and  —  wicked  as  you  fear  the  preacher 
might  judge  it  —  you  cannot  but  found  on  those  deeds 
a  hope  that  your  prayer  at  night  flows  more  easily, 
more  freely,  and  more  holily  toward  "  Our  Father  in 
Heaven."  Nor  indeed  later  in  life  —  whatever  may  be 
the  ill-advised  expressions  of  human  teachers  —  will 
you  ever  find  that  Duty  performed,  and  generous  endeavor 
will  stand  one  whit  in  the  way  either  of  Faith  or  of 
Love.  Striving  to  be  good  is  a  very  direct  road  toward 
Goodness ;  and  if  life  be  so  tempered  by  high  motive 
as  to  make  actions  always  good,  Faith  is  unconsciously 
won. 


0-1  DREAM-LIFE. 

Another  notion  that  disturbs  you  very  much,  is  your 
j^ositive  dislike  of  long  sermons,  and  of  such  singing  as 
they  have  when  the  organist  is  away.  You  cannot  get 
(he  force  of  that  verse  of  Dr.  Watts  which  likens  heaven 
to  a  never-ending  Sabbath ;  you  do  hope  —  though  it 

seems  a  half  wicked  hope  —  that  old  Dr. will  not 

be  the  preacher.  You  think  that  your  heart  in  its  best 
moments  craves  for  something  more  lovable.  You  sug- 
gest this  perhaps  to  some  Sunday  teacher,  who  only 
shakes  his  head  sourly,  and  tells  you  it  is  a  thought 
that  the  Devil  is  putting  in  your  brain.  It  strikes  you 
oddly  that  the  Devil  should  be  using  a  verse  of  Dr. 
Watts  to  puzzle  you !  But  if  it  be  so,  he  keeps  it  stick- 
ing by  your  thought  very  pertinaciously,  until  some  sim- 
ple utterance  of  your  mother  about  the  Love  that  reigns 
in  the  other  world  seems  on  a  sudden  to  widen  Heaven, 
and  to  waft  away  your  doubts  like  a  cloud. 

It  excites  your  wonder  not  a  little  to  find  people,  who 
talk  gravely  and  heartily  of  the  excellence  of  sermons 
and  of  chiu'ch-going,  sometimes  fall  asleep  under  it  all. 
And  you  wonder  —  if  they  really  like  preaching  so 
well  —  why  they  do  not  buy  some  of  the  minister's  old 
manuscripts,  and  read  them  over  on  week-days,  or  in 
vite  the  clergyman  to  preach  to  them  in  a  quiet  way  in 
private. 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  do  not  yet  know  the   poor 

weakness  of  even  maturest   manhood,  and  the  feeble 


BOY  RELIGION.  65 

gropings  of  the  soul  toward  a  soul's  paradise  in  the  best 
of  the  world !  You  do  not  yet  kaow  either,  that  igno- 
rance and  fear  will  be  thrusting  their  untruth  and  false 
show  into  the  very  essentials  of  Religion. 

Again  you  wonder,  if  the  clergymen  are  all  such  very 
good  men  as  you  are  taught  to  believe,  why  it  is  that 
every  little  while  people  will  be  trying  to  send  them  off, 
and  very  anxious  to  prove  that,  instead  of  being  so  good, 
they  are  in  fact  very  stupid  and  bad  men.  At  that  day 
you  have  no  clear  conceptions  of  the  distinction  between 
stupidity  and  vice,  and  think  that  a  good  man  must  ne- 
cessarily say  very  eloquent  things.  You  will  find  your- 
self sadly  mistaken  on  this  point,  before  you  get  on  very 
far  in  life. 

Heaven,  when  yom'  mother  peoples  it  with  friends 
gone,  and  little  Charlie,  and  that  better  Friend  who,  she 
says,  took  Charlie  in  his  arms,  and  is  now  his  Father 
above  the  skies,  seems  a  place  to  be  loved  and  longed 
for.  But  to  think  that  Mr.  Such-an-one,  who  is  only 
good  on  Sundays,  will  be  there  too, —  and  to  think  of  his 
talking  as  he  does  of  a  place  which  you  are  sure  he 
would  spoil  if  he  were  there,  — ■  puzzles  you  again  ;  and 
you  relapse  into  wonder,  doubt,  and  yearning. 

And  there,   Clarence,  for  the    present,  I  shall 

leave  you.  A  wide,  rich  heaven  hangs  above  you,  but 
it  hangs  very  high.  A  wide,  rough  world  is  around  you, 
and  it  lies  very  low  ! 


06  DREAM-LIFE. 

I  am  assuming  in  tlicse  sketches  no  office  of  a 
teacher.  I  am  seeking  only  to  make  a  truthful  analysis 
of  the  boyish  thought  and  feeling.  But  having  ventured 
thus  far  into  what  may  seem  sacred  ground,  I  shall  vent- 
ure still  farther,  and  clinch  my  matter  with  a  moral. 

There  is  very  much  religious  teaching,  even  in  so 
good  a  country  as  New  England,  which  is  far  too  harsh, 
too  dry,  too  cold  for  the  heart  of  a  boy.  Long  sermons, 
doctrinal  precepts,  and  such  tediously-worded  dogmas 
as  were  uttered  by  those  honest  but  hard-spoken*  men, 
the  Westminster  Divines,  fatigue,  and  puzzle,  and  dis- 
pirit him. 

They  may  be  well  enough  for  those  strong  souls 
which  strengthen  by  task  -  work,  or  for  those  mature 
people  whose  iron  habit  of  self-denial  has  made  patience 
a  cardinal  virtue  ;  but  they  fall  {experto  crede)  upon  the 
unfledged  faculties  of  the  boy  like  a  winter's  rain  upon 
spring  flowers, — like  hammers  of  iron  upon  lithe  tim- 
ber. They  may  make  deep  impression  upon  his  moral 
nature,  but  there  is  great  danger  of  a  sad  rebound. 

Is  it  absurd  to  suppose  that  some  adaptation  is  desir- 
able ?  And  might  not  the  teachings  of  that  Religion, 
which  is  the  aegis  of  our  moral  being,  be  inwrought  with 
some  of  those  finer  harmonies  of  speech  and  form  which 
vrere  given  to  wise  ends,  — and  lure  the  boyish  soul  by 
something  akin  to  that  gentleness  which  belonged  to 
the  Nazarene  Teacher,  and  which  provided  not  only 
meat  for  men,  but  "  milk  for  babes  "  ? 


VI. 

A  New-England  Squire. 

TT^RANK  has  a  grandfather  living  in  the  country,  a 
-^  good  specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  New-England 
farmer.  And  —  go  where  one  will  the  world  over  —  I 
know  of  no  race  of  men  who,  taken  as  a  whole,  pos- 
sess more  integrity,  more  intelligence,  and  more  of 
those  elements  of  comfort  which  go  to  make  a  home  be- 
loved and  the  social  basis  firm,  than  the  New-England 
farmers. 

They  are  not  brilliant,  nor  are  they  highly  refined ; 
they  know  nothing  of  arts,  histrionic  or  dramatic  ;  they 
know  only  so  much  of  older  nations  as  their  histories 
and  newspapers  teach  them ;  in  the  fashionable  world 
they  hold  no  place ;  —  but  in  energy,  in  industry,  in 
hardy  virtue,  in  substantial  knowledge,  and  in  manly 
independence,  they  make  up  a  race  that  is  hard  to  be 
matched. 

The  French  peasantry  are,  in  all  the  essentials  of 
intelligence  and  sterling  worth,  infants  compared  with 
them  ;  and  the  farmers  of  England  are  either  the  merest 
'ockeys  in  grain,  witli  few  ideas   beyond  their  sacks, 


68  DREAM-LIFE. 

samples,  and  market-days,  —  or,  with  added  cultivation, 
they  lose  their  independence  in  a  subserviency  to  some 
neighbor  patron  of  rank ;  and  superior  intelligence 
teaches  them  no  lesson  so  quickly  as  that  their  breth- 
ren of  the  glebe  are  unequal  to  them,  and  are  to  be  left 
to  their  cattle  and  the  goad. 

There  are  English  farmers  indeed,  who  are  men  in 
earnest,  who  read  the  papers,  and  who  keep  the  current 
of  the  year's  intelligence ;  but  such  men  are  the  excep- 
tions. In  New  England,  with  the  school  upon  every 
third  hillside,  and  the  self-regulating,  free-acting  church 
to  watch  every  valley  with  week-day  quiet,  and  to  wake 
every  valley  with  Sabbath  soimd,  the  men  become,  as  a 
class,  bold,  intelligent,  and  honest  actors,  who  would 
make  again,  as  they  have  made  before,  a  terrible  army 
of  defence,  —  and  who  would  find  reasons  for  their 
actions  as  strong  as  their  armies. 

Frank's  grandfather  has  silver  hair,  but  is  still  hale, 
erect,  and  strong.  His  dress  is  homely  but  neat.  Being 
a  thorough-going  Protectionist,  he  has  no  fancy  for  the 
gewgaws  of  foreign  importation,  and  makes  it  a  point  to 
appear  always  in  the  village  church,  and  on  all  great 
occasions,  in  a  sober  suit  of  homespun.  He  has  no 
pride  of  appearance,  and  he  needs  none.  He  is  known 
as  the  Squire  throughout  the  township  ;  and  no  im- 
portant measure  can  pass  the  board  of  selectmen  with- 
out the    Squire's   approval ;  —  and  this  from  no  blind 


A  NEW-ENGLAND   SQUIRE.  69 

subserviency  to  his  opinion, —  because  his  farm  is  large, 
and  he  is  reckoned  "  forehanded," —  but  because  there 
is  a  confidence  in  his  judgment. 

He  is  jealous  of  none  of  the  prerogatives  of  the  coun- 
try parson,  or  of  the  schoolmaster,  or  of  the  village  doc- 
tor ;  and  although  the  latter  is  a  testy  politician  of  the 
opposite  party,  it  does  not  all  impair  the  Squire's  faith 
in  his  calomel ;  he  suffers  all  his  Radicalism  with  the 
same  equanimity  that  he  suffers  his  rhubarb. 

The  day-laborers  of  the  neighborhood,  and  the  small 
farmers,  consider  the  Squire's  note-of-hand  for  their  sav- 
ings better  than  the  best  bonds  of  city  origin  ;  and  they 
seek  his  advice  in  all  matters  of  litigation.  He  is  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace,  as  the  title  of  Squire  in  a  New- 
England  village  implies ;  and  many  are  the  sessions  of 
the  country  courts  that  you  peep  upon  with  Frank,  from 
the  door  of  the  great  dining-room. 

The  defendant  always  seems  to  you  in  these  impor- 
tant cases  —  especially  if  his  beard  is  rather  long  —  an 
extraordinary  ruffian,  to  whom  Jack  Sheppard  would 
have  been  a  comparatively  innocent  boy.  You  watch 
curiously  the  old  gentleman  sitting  in  his  big  arm-chair, 
with  his  spectacles  in  their  silver  case  at  his  elbow,  and 
his  snuffbox  in  hand,  listening  attentively  to  some 
grievous  complaint ;  you  see  him  j^onder  deeply,  —  with 
a  pinch  of  snuff  to  aid  his  judgment,  —  and  you  listen 
with  intense  admiration  as  he  gives  a  loud  preparatory 


70  DREAM-LIFE. 

"Ahem  ! "  and  clears  away  the  intricacies  of  the  case 
with  a  sweep  of  that  strong  practical  sense  which  distin- 
guishes the  New-England  farmer,  —  getting  at  the  very 
hinge  of  the  matter,  without  any  consciousness  of  his 
own  precision,  and  satisfying  the  defendant  by  the  clear- 
ness of  his  talk  as  much  as  by  the  leniency  of  his 
judgment. 

His  lands  lie  along  those  swelling  hills,  which  in 
southern  New  England  carry  the  chain  of  the  Wliite 
and  Green  Mountains  in  gentle  undulations  to  the 
borders  of  the  sea.  He  farms  some  fifteen  hundred 
acres,  — "  suitably  divided,"  as  the  old-school  agricult- 
urists say,  into  "  woodland,  pasture,  and  tillage."  The 
farm-house  —  a  large,  irregularly-built  mansion  of  wood 
—  stands  upon  a  shelf  of  the  hills  looking  southward, 
and  is  shaded  by  century-old  oaks.  The  barns  and  out- 
buildings are  grouped  in  a  brown  phalanx  a  little  to 
the  northward  of  the  dwelling.  Between  them  a  hi<rh 
timber  gate  opens  upon  the  scattered  pasture  lands  of 
the  hills ;  opposite  to  this  and  across  the  farmyard, 
which  is  the  lounglng-place  of  scores  of  red-necked 
turkeys  and  of  matronly  hens,  clucking  to  their  callow 
brood,  another  gate  of  similar  pretensions  opens  upon 
the  wide  meadow-land,  which  rolls  with  a  heavy  "  ground- 
swell  "  along  the  valley  of  a  mountain  river.  A  veteran 
oak  stands  sentinel  at  the  brown  meadow-gate,  its  trunk 
all  scarred  with  the  ruthless  cuts  of  new-ground  axes, 


A  NEW-ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  71 

and  the  limbs  garnished  in  summer-time  with  the 
crooked  snathes  of  murderous-looking  scythes. 

The  high-road  passes  a  stcne's-throw  away ;  but  there 
is  little  "  travel "  to  be  seen  ;  and  every  chance  passer 
will  inevitably  come  under  the  range  of  the  kitchen- 
windows,  and  be  studied  carefully  by  the  eyes  of  the 
stout  dairy-maid,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  stalwart 
Indian  cook. 

This  last  you  cannot  but  admire  as  a  type  of  that 
noble  old  race,  among  whom  your  boyish  fancy  has 
woven  so  many  stories  of  rortiance.  You  wonder  how 
she  must  regard  the  vvhite  interlopers  upon  her  own 
soil ;  and  you  think  that  she  tolerates  the  Squire's  farm- 
ing privileges  with  more  modesty  than  you  would  sup- 
pose. You  learn  however  that  she  pays  very  little 
regard  to  v.hite  rights  —  when  they  conflict  with  her 
own ;  and  further  learn,  to  your  deep  regret,  that  your 
Princess  of  the  old  tribe  is  sadly  addicted  to  cider-drink- 
ing ;  and  having  heard  her  once  or  twice  with  a  very 
indistinct  "  Goo-er  night,  Sq-quare  "  upon  her  lips,  your 
dreams  about  her  grow  verj'  tame. 

The  Squire,  like  all  very  sensible  men,  has  his  hob- 
bies and  peculiarities.  He  has  a  great  contempt,  for 
instance,  for  all  paper  money,  and  imagines  banks  to 
be  corporate  societies  skilfully  contrived  for  the  legal 
plunder  of  the  community.  He  keeps  a  supply  of  silver 
and  gold  by  hirri  in  the  foot  of  an  old  stocking,  and 


72  DREAM-LIFE. 

seems  to  have  great  confidence  in  the  vahie  of  Spanish 
milled  dollars.  He  has  no  kind  of  patience  with  the 
new  doctrines  of  farming.  Liebig,  and  all  the  rest,  he 
sets  down  as  mere  theorists,  and  has  far  more  respect 
for  the  contents  of  his  barnyard  than  for  all  the  guano 
deposits  in  the  world.  Scientific  farming,  and  gentle- 
man farming,  may  do  very  well,  he  says,  "  to  keep  idle 
young  fellows  from  the  city  out  of  mischief ;  but  as  for 
real,  effective  management,  there 's  nothing  like  the  old 
stock  of  men,  who  ran  barefoot  until  they  were  ten, 
and  who  count  the  hard  winters  by  their  frozen  toes." 
And  he  is  fond  of  quoting  in  this  connection  —  the 
only  quotation,  by  the  by,  that  the  old  gentleman  ever 
makes  —  that  couplet  of  "  Poor  Richard,"  — 

"  He,  that  by  the  plough  Avould  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive." 

The  Squire  has  been  in  his  day  connected  more  or 
less  intimately  with  turnpike  enterprise,  which  the 
railroads  of  the  day  have  thrown  sadly  into  the  back- 
ground ;  and  he  reflects  often  in  a  melancholy  way 
upon  the  good  old  times  when  a  man  could  travel  in 
his  own  carriage  quietly  across  the  country,  without 
being  frightened  with  the  clatter  of  an  engine,  and 
when  turnpike  stock  paid  wholesome  yearly  dividends 
of  six  per  cent. 

An  almost  constant  hanger-on  about  the  premises, 
and  a  great  favorite  with  the  Squire,  is  a  stout,  middle- 


A  NEW-ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  73 

aged  man,  with  a  heavy-bearded  face,  to  whom  Frank 
introduces  you  as  "  Cajitain  Dick " ;  and  he  tells  you 
moreover  that  he  is  a  better  butcher,  a  better  wall- 
layer,  and  cuts  a  broader  "  swathe,"  than  any  man  upon 
the  fann.  Beside  all  which  he  has  an  immense  deal 
of  information.  He  knows  in  the  spring  where  all  the 
crows'-nests  are  to  be  found ;  he  tells  Frank  where  the 
foxes  bun'ow ;  he  has  even  shot  two  or  three  raccoons 
in  the  swamps ;  he  knows  the  best  season  to  troll  for 
pickerel ;  he  has  a  thorough  understanding  of  bee- 
himting ;  he  can  tell  the  ownership  of  every  stray  heifer 
that  appears  upon  the  road :  indeed  scarce  an  inquiry  is 
made,  or  an  opinion  formed,  on  any  of  these  subjects, 
or  on  such  kindred  ones  as  the  weather,  or  potato  crop, 
without  previous  consultation  with  "  Captain  Dick." 

You  have  an  extraordinary  respect  for  Captain  Dick : 
his  gruff  tones,  dark  beard,  patched  waistcoat,  and  cow- 
hide boots,  only  add  to  it :  you  can  compare  your  regard 
for  him  only  with  the  sentiments  you  entertain  for  those 
fabulous  Roman  heroes,  led  on  by  Horatius,  who  cut 
down  the  bridge  across  the  Tiber,  and  then  swam  over 
to  their  wives  and  families  ! 

A  superannuated  old  greyhound  lives  about  the  prem- 
ises, and  stalks  lazily  around,  thrusting  his  thin  nose 
into  your  hands  in  a  very  affectionate  manner. 

Of  course,  in  your  way,  you  are  a  lion  among  the 
boys  of  the  neighborhood :  a  blue  jacket  that  you  wear, 


74  DREAM-LIFE. 

with  bell  buttons  of  white  metal,  is  their  especial  won* 
derment.  You  astonish  them  moreover  with  your 
stories  of  various  j^arts  of  the  world  which  they  have 
never  visited.  They  tell  you  of  the  haunts  of  rabbits, 
and  great  snake  stories,  as  you  sit  in  the  dusk  after 
supper  under  the  old  oaks  ;  and  you  delight  them  in 
turn  with  some  marvellous  tale  of  South- American  rep- 
tiles out  of  Peter  Parley's  books. 

In  all  this  your  new  friends  are  men  of  observation ; 
while  Frank  and  yourself  are  comparatively  men  of 
reading.  In  ciphering,  and  all  schooling,  you  find  yoiir- 
self  a  long  way  before  them  ;  and  you  talk  of  problems, 
and  foreign  seas,  and  Latin  declensions,  in  a  way  that 
sets  them  all  agape. 

As  for  the  little  country  girls,  their  bare  legs  rather 
stagger  your  notions  of  propriety ;  nor  can  you  wholly 
get  over  their  out-of-the-way  pronunciation  of  some 
of  the  vowels.  Frank  however  has  a  little  cousin,  —  a 
toddling,  wee  thing,  some  seven  years  your  junior,  who 
has  a  rich  eye  for  an  infant.  But,  alas,  its  color  means 
nothing  ;  poor  Fanny  is  stone-blind  !  Your  pity  leans 
toward  her  strangely,  as  she  feels  her  way  about  the  old 
parlor ;  and  her  dark  eyes  wander  over  the  wainscot, 
or  over  the  clear,  blue  sky,  with  the  same  sad,  painful 
vacancy. 

And  yet  —  it  is  very  strange !  —  she  does  not  grieve : 
there  is  a  sweet,  soft  smile  upon  her  lip,  —  a  smile,  that 


A  NEW-ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  75 

will  come  to  you  in  your  fancied  troubles  of  after-life 
with  a  deep  voice  of  reproach. 

Altogether  you  grow  into  a  liking  of  the  country: 
your  boyish  spirit  loves  its  fresh,  bracing  air,  and  the 
sparkles  of  dew  that  at  sunrise  cover  the  hills  with 
diamonds ;  and  the  wild  river,  with  its  black-topped, 
loitering  pools ;  and  the  shaggy  mists  that  lie  in  the 
nights  of  early  autumn  like  unravelled  clouds,  lost  upon 
the  meadow.  You  love  the  hills,  climbing  green  and 
grand  to  the  skies,  or  stretching  away  in  distance  their 
soft,  blue,  smoky  caps,  like  the  sweet,  half-faded  mem- 
ories of  the  years  behind  you.  You  love  those  oaks, 
tossing  up  their  broad  arms  into  clear  heaven  with  a 
spirit  and  a  strength  that  kindles  your  dawning  pride 
and  purposes,  and  that  makes  you  yearn,  as  your 
forehead  mantles  with  fresh  blood,  for  a  kindred  spirit 
and  a  kindred  strength.  Above  all  you  love  —  though 
you  do  not  know  it  now  —  the  Breadth  of  a  country 
life.  In  the  fields  of  God's  planting  there  is  Room. 
No  walls  of  brick  and  mortar  cramp  one  ;  no  factitious 
distinctions  mould  your  habit.  The  involuntary  reaches 
of  the  spirit  tend  toward  the  True  and  the  Natural. 
The  flowers,  the  clouds,  and  the  fresh-smelling  earth, 
all  give  width  to  your  intent.  The  boy  grows  into  man- 
liness, instead  of  growing  to  be  like  men.  He  claims 
—  with  tears  almost  of  brotherhood  —  his  kinship  with 
Nature ;  and  he  feels  in  the  mountains  his  heirship  to 
the  Father  of  Nature  ! 


76  DREAM-LIFE. 

This  delirium  of  feeling  may  not  find  expression  upon 
the  lip  of  the  boy ;  but  yet  it  underlies  his  thought,  and 
will  without  his  consciousness  give  the  spring  to  his 
musing  dreams. 

So  it  is,  that,  as  you  lie  there  upon  the  simny 

greensward,  at  the  old  Squire's  door,  you  muse  upon 
the  time  when  some  rich-lying  land,  with  huge  gran- 
aries, and  cosy  old  mansion  sleeping  under  the  trees, 
shall  be  yours,  —  when  the  brooks  shall  water  your 
meadows,  and  come  laughing  down  your  pasture-lands, 

—  when  the  clouds  shall  shed  their  spring  fragrance 
upon  your  lawns,  and  the  daisies  bless  your  paths. 

You  will  then  be  a  Squire,  with  your  cane,  your 
lean-limbed  hound,  your  stocking-leg  of  specie,  and 
your  snuffbox.  You  will  be  the  happy  and  respected 
husband  of  some  tidy  old  lady  in  black,  and  spectacles, 

—  a  little  phthisicky,  like  Frank's  grandmother,  —  and 
an  accomplished  cook  of  stewed  peai's  and  Johnny- 
cakes  ! 

It  seems  a  very  lofty  ambition  at  this  stage  of  growth 
to  reach  such  eminence,  as  to  convert  your  drawer  in 
the  wainscot,  that  has  a  secret  spring,  into  a  bank  for 
the  country  people ;  and  the  power  to  send  a  man  to 
jail  seems  one  of  those  stretches  of  human  preroga- 
tive to  which  few  of  your  fellow-mortals  can  ever  hope 
to  attain. 

Well,  it  may  all  be.     And  who  knows  but  the 


A  NEW-ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  77 

Dreams  of  Age,  when  they  are  reached,  will  be  lighted 
by  the  same  spirit  and  freedom  of  nature  that  is 
around  you  now  ?  Who  knows,  but  that  after  tracking 
you  through  the  spring  and  the  summer  of  Youth, 
we  shall  find  frosted  Age  settling  upon  you  heavily 
and  solemnly  in  the  very  fields  where  you  wanton 
to-day  ? 

This  American  life  of  ours  is  a  tortuous  and  shifting 
impidse.  It  brings  Age  back  from  years  of  wandering 
to  totter  in  the  hamlet  of  its  birth ;  and  it  scatters 
armies  of  ripe  manhood  to  bleach  far-away  shores  with 
their  bones. 

That  Providence,  whose  eye  and  hand  are  the  spy 
and  the  executioner  of  the  Fateful  changes  of  our  life, 
may  bring  you  back  in  Manhood,  or  in  Age,  to  this 
mountain  home  of  New  England ;  and  that  very  wil- 
low yonder,  which  your  fancy  now  makes  the  graceful 
mourner  of  your  leave,  may  one  day  shadow  mourn 
fully  your  grave  ! 


VII. 

Tlie  Country  Church. 

fT^HE  country  church  is  a  square  old  building  of 
-*-  wood  without  paint  or  decoration,  and  of  that 
genuine  Puritanic  stamp  which  is  now  fast  giving  way 
to  Greek  porticos  and  to  cockney  towers.  It  stands 
upon  a  hill,  with  a  little  churchyard  in  its  rear,  where 
one  or  two  sickly-looking  trees  keep  watch  and  ward 
over  the  vagrant  sheep  that  graze  among  the  graves. 
Bramble-bushes  seem  to  thrive  on  the  bodies  below, 
and  there  is  no  flower  in  the  little  yard,  save  a  few 
golden-rods,  which  flaunt  their  gaudy  inodorous  color 
under  the  lee  of  the  northern  wall. 

New  England  country-livers  have  as  yet  been  very 
little  inoculated  with  the  sentiment  of  beauty  ;  even 
the  door-step  to  the  church  is  a  wide  flat  stone,  that 
shows  not  a  single  stroke  of  the  hammer.  Within,  the 
simplicity  is  even  more  severe.  Brown  galleries  run 
around  three  sides  of  the  old  building,  supported  by 
timbers,  on  which  you  still  trace,  under  the  stains  from 
the  leaky  roof,  the  deep  scoring  of  the  woodman's  axe. 

Below,  the   unpainted  pews  are   ranged   in    square 


THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH.  79 

forms,  and  by  age  have  gained  the  color  of  those  frag- 
mentary wrecks  of  cigar-boxes  which  you  see  upon 
the  top  shelves  in  the  bar-rooms  of  country  taverns. 
The  minister's  desk  is  lofty,  and  has  once  been  hon- 
ored with  a  coating  of  paint ;  —  as  well  as  the  huge 
sounding-board,  which  to  your  great  amazement  pro- 
trudes from  the  wall  at  a  very  dangerous  angle  of  in- 
clination over  the  speaker's  head.  As  the  Squire's  pew 
is  the  place  of  honor  to  the  right  of  the  pulpit,  you  have 
a  little  tremor  yourself  at  sight  of  the  heavy  sounding- 
board,  and  cannot  forbear  indulging  in  a  quiet  feeling 
of  relief  when  the  last  prayer  is  said. 

There  are  in  the  Squire's  pew  long,  faded,  crimson 
cushions,  which,  it  seems  to  you,  must  date  back 
nearly  to  the  commencement  of  the  Christian  era  in 
this  country.  There  are  also  sundry  old  thumb-worn 
copies  of  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  of  the  Psalms  of  David, 
—  "appointed  to  be  sung  in  churches  by  authority  of 
the  General  Association  of  the  State  of  Connecticut." 
The  sides  of  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  are,  you  observe, 
sadly  warped  and  weather-stained ;  and  from  some 
stray  figures  which  appear  upon  a  fly-leaf  you  are  con- 
strained to  think,  that  the  Squire  has  sometimes  em- 
ployed a  quiet  interval  of  the  service  with  reckoning 
up  the  contents  of  the  old  stocking-leg  at  home. 

The  parson  is  a  stout  man,  remarkable  in  your  opin- 
ion chiefly  for  a  yellowish-brown  wig,  a  strong  nasal 


80  DREAM-LIFE. 

tone,  and  occasional  violent  thumps  upon  the  little, 
dingy,  red  velvet  cushion,  studded  with  brass  tacks,  at 
the  top  of  the  desk.  You  do  not  altogether  admire 
his  style;  and  by  the  time  he  has  entered  upon  his 
"Fourthly,"  you  give  your  attention  in  despair  to  a 
new  reading  (it  must  be  the  twentieth)  of  the  preface 
to  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  of  the  Psalms. 

The  singing  has  a  charm  for  you.  There  is  a  long, 
thin-faced,  flax-haired  man,  who  carries  a  tuning-fork 
in  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  who  leads  the  choir.  His 
position  is  in  the  very  front  rank  of  gallery  benches 
fkcing  the  desk  ;  and  by  the  time  the  old  clergyman 
has  read  two  verses  of  the  psalni,  the  country  chorister 
turns  around  to  his  little  group  of  aids  —  consisting  of 
the  blacksmith,  a  carroty-headed  schoolmaster,  two 
women  in  snuff-colored  silks,  and  a  girl  in  pink  bonnet 

—  to  announce  the  tune. 

This  being  done  in  an  authoritative  manner,  he  lifts 
his  long  music-book  —  glances  again  at  his  little  com- 
pany, —  clears  his  throat  by  a  powerful  ahem,  followed 
by  a  powerful  use  of  a  bandanna  pocket-handkerchief, 

—  draws  out  his  tuning-fork,  and  waits  for  the  parson 
to  close  his  reading.  He  now  reviews  once  more  his 
company,  —  throws  a  reproving  glance  at  the  young 
woman  in  the  pink  hat,  who  at  the  moment  is  biting 
off  a  stout  bunch  of  fennel,  —  lifts  his  music-book,  — 
thumps  upon  the  rail  with  his  fork,  —  listens  keenly,  — 


THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH.  81 

gives  a  slight  ahem,  —  falls  into  the  cadence,  —  swells 
into  a  strong  crescendo,  —  catches  at  the  first  word  of 
the  line  as  if  he  were  afraid  it  might  get  away,  —  turns 
to  his  company,  —  lifts  his  music-book  with  spirit,  gives 
it  a  powerful  slap  v/ith  the  disengaged  hand,  and  with 
a  majestic  toss  of  the  head  soars  away,  with  half  the 
women  below  straggling  on  in  his  v/ake,  into  some  such 
brave  old  melody  as  —  Litchfield  ! 

Being  a  visitor,  and  in  the  Squire's  pew,  you  are  nat- 
urally an  object  of  considerable  attention  to  the  girls 
about  your  age,  as  well  as  to  a  great  many  fat  old  ladies 
in  iron  spectacles,  who  mortify  you  excessively  by  pat- 
ting you  under  the  chin  after  church  ;  and  insist  upon 
mistaking  you  for  Frank ;  and  force  upon  you  very  dry 
cookies  spiced  with  caraway  seeds. 

You  keep  somewhat  shy  of  the  young  ladies,  as  they 
are  rather  stout  for  your  notions  of  beauty,  and  wear 
thick  calf-skin  boots.  They  compare  very  poorly  with 
Jenny.  Jenny,  you  think,  would  be  above  eating  gin- 
gerbread between  service.  None  of  them,  you  imagine, 
ever  read  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  or  ever  used  a  col- 
ored glass  seal  with  a  Cupid  and  a  dart  upon  it.  You 
are  quite  certain  they  never  did,  or  they  could  not 
surely  wear  such  dowdy  gowns,  and  suck  their  thumbs 
as  they  do  ! 

The  farmers  you  have  a  high  respect  for,  —  particu- 
larly for  one  weazen-faced  old  gentleman  in  a  brown 


82  DREAM-LIFE. 

snrtout,  who  brings  his  whip  into  church  with  him,  who 
sings  in  a  very  strong  voice,  and  who  drives  a  span  of 
gray  colts.  You  think,  however,  that  he  has  got  rather 
a  stout  wife  ;  and  from  the  way  he  humors  her  in  stop- 
ping to  talk  with  two  or  three  other  fat  women,  before 
setting  off  for  home,  (though  he  seenjs  a  httle  fidgety,) 
you  naively  think  that  he  has  a  high  regard  for  her 
©pinion.  Another  townsman  who  attracts  your  notice 
is  a  stout  old  deacon,  who,  before  entering,  always  steps 
around  the  corner  of  the  church,  and  puts  his  hat  upon 
the  ground,  to  adjust  his  wig  in  a  quiet  way.  He  then 
marches  up  the  broad  aisle  in  a  stately  manner,  and 
plants  his  hat  and  a  big  pair  of  buckskin  mittens  on  the 
little  table  under  the  desk.  When  he  is  fairly  seated  in 
his  corner  of  the  pew,  with  his  elbow  upon  the  top 
rail,  —  almost  the  only  man  who  can  comfortably  reach 
it,  —  you  observe  that  he  spreads  his  brawny  fingers 
over  his  scalp  in  an  exceedingly  cautious  manner  ;  and 
you  innocently  think  again  that  it  is  very  hypocritical  in 
a  deacon  to  be  pretending  to  lean  upon  his  hand  when 
he  is  only  keeping  his  wig  straight. 

After  the  morning  service  they  have  an  "  hour's  in- 
termission," as  the  preacher  calls  it ;  during  which  the 
old  men  gather  on  a  sunny  side  of  the  building,  and, 
after  shaking  hands  all  around,  and  asking  after  the 
''  folks "  at  home,  they  enjoy  a  quiet  talk  about  the 
crops.     One  man,  for  instance,  with  a  twist  in  his  nose, 


THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH.  83 

would  say,  "  It 's  raether  a  growin'  season  ; "  and  an- 
other would  reply,  "  Tolerable,  but  potatoes  is  feelin' 
the  wet  badly."  The  stout  deacon  approves  this  opin  • 
ion,  and  confirms  it  by  blowing  his  nose  very  power- 
fully. 

Two  or  three  of  the  more  worldly-minded  ones  will 
perhaps  stroll  over  to  a  neighbor's  barn-yard,  and  take 
a  look  at  his  young  stock,  and  talk  of  prices,  and  whittle 
a  little ;  and  very  likely  some  two  of  them  will  make  a 
conditional  "  swop  "  of  "  three  likely  ye'rlings  "  for  a 
pair  of  "  two-year-olds." 

The  youngsters  are  fond  of  getting  out  into  the  grave- 
yard, and  comparing  jackknives,  or  talking  about  the 
schoolmaster  or  the  menagerie,  or,  it  may  be,  of  some 
prospective  ''  travel "  in  the  fall,  —  either  to  town,  or 
perhaps  to  the  "  sea-shore." 

Afternoon  service  hangs  heavily ;  and  the  tall  chor- 
ister is  by  no  means  so  blithe,  or  so  majestic  in  the  toss 
of  his  head,  as  in  the  morning.  A  boy  in  the  next  box 
ti'ies  to  provoke  you  into  familiarity  by  dropping  pellets 
of  gingerbread  through  the  bars  of  the  pew ;  but  as  you 
are  not  accustomed  to  that  way  of  making  acquaint- 
ance, you  decline  all  overtures. 

After  the  service  is  finished,  the  wagons,  that  have 
been  disposed  on  either  side  of  the  road,  are  drawn  up 
before  the  door.  The  old  Squire  meantime  is  sure  to 
have  a  little  chat  with  the  parson  before  he  leaves ;  in 


84  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  course  of  which  the  parson  takes  occasion  to  say 
that  his  wife  is  a  little  ailing,  —  "a  slight  touch,"  he 
thinks,  "  of  the  rheumatiz."  One  of  the  children  too 
has  been  troubled  with  the  "  summer  complaint  "  for  a 
day  or  two  ;  but  he  thinks  that  a  dose  of  catnip,  under 
Providence,  will  effect  a  cure.  The  younger  and  un- 
married men,  with  red  wagons  flaming  upon  bright 
yellow  wheels,  make  great  efforts  to  drive  off  in  the 
van  ;  and  they  spin  frightfully  near  some  of  the  fat, 
sour-faced  women,  who  remark  in  a  quiet,  but  not  very 
Christian  tone,  that  they  "  fear  the  elder's  sermon  has 
n't  done  the  young  bucks  much  good."  It  is  much  to 
be  feared  in  truth  that  it  has  not. 

In  ten  minutes  the  old  church  is  thoroughly  de- 
serted ;  the  neighbor  who  keeps  the  key  has  locked  up 
for  another  week  the  creaking  door ;  and  nothing  of 
the  service  remains  within  except  —  Dr.  Dwight's  Ver- 
sion, —  the  long  music-books,  —  crumbs  of  gingerbread, 
and  refuse  stalks  of  despoiled  fennel. 

And  yet  under  the  influence  of  that  old,  weather- 
stained  temple  are  perhaps  growing  up  —  though  you 
do  not  once  fancy  it  —  souls  possessed  of  an  energy,  an 
industry,  and  a  respect  for  virtue,  which  will  make  them 
stronger  for  the  real  work  of  life  than  all  the  elegant 
children  of  a  city.  One  lesson,  which  even  the  rudest 
churches  of  New  England  teach, — with  all  their  harsh- 
ness, and  all  their  repulsive  severity  of  form,  —  is  the 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  85 

lesson  of  Self-Denial.  Once  armed  with  that,  and  man- 
hood is  strong.  The  soul  that  possesses  the  conscious- 
ness of  mastering  passion,  is  endowed  with  an  element 
of  force  that  can  never  iiarnionize  with  defeat.  Diffi- 
culties it  wears  like  a  summer  garment,  and  flings  away 
at  the  first  approach  of  the  winter  of  Need. 

Let  not  any  one  suppose,  then,  that  in  this  detail  of 
the  country  life  through  which  our  hero  is  led,  I  would 
cast  obloquy  or  a  sneer  upon  its  simplicity,  or  upon  its 
lack  of  refinement.  Goodness  and  strength  in  this 
world  are  quite  as  apt  to  wear  rough  coats  as  fine  ones. 
And  the  words  of  thorough  and  self-sacrificinsf  kindness 
are  far  more  often  dressed  in  the  uncouth  sounds  of 
retired  life  than  in  the  polished  utterance  of  the  town. 
Heaven  has  not  made  warm  hearts  and  honest  hearts 
distinguishable  by  the  quality  of  tlie  covering.  True 
diamonds  need  no  work  of  the  artificer  to  reflect  and 
multiply  their  rays.  Goodness  is  more  within  than 
without ;  and  purity  is  of  nearer  kin  to  the  soul  than  to 
the  body. 

And,  Clarence,  it  may  well  happen  that  later  in 

life  — under  the  gorgeous  ceilings  of  Venetian  churches, 
or  at  some  splendid  mass  in  Notre  Dame,  with  embroid- 
ered coats  and  costly  silks  around  you  —  your  thoughts 
will  run  back  to  that  little  storm-beaten  church,  and  to 
the  willow  waving  in  its  yard,  with  a  Hope  that  glows., 
and  with  a  tear  that  you  embalm ! 


VIII. 

A  Home  Scene, 

A  ND  now  I  shall  not  leave  this  realm  of  boyhood, 
^^  or  suffer  my  hero  to  slip  away  from  this  gala- 
time  of  his  life,  without  a  fair  look  at  that  Home  where 
his  present  pleasures  lie,  and  where  all  his  dreams  begin 
and  end. 

Little  does  the  boy  know,  as  the  tide  of  years  drifts 
by,  floating  him  out  insensibly  from  the  harbor  of  his 
home  upon  the  great  sea  of  life,  —  what  joys,  what 
opportunities,  what  affections,  are  slij^ping  from  him 
into  the  shades  of  that  inexorable  Past,  where  no  man 
can  go  save  on  the  wings  of  his  dreams.  Little  does 
he  think  —  and  God  be  praised  that  the  thought  does 
not  sink  deep  lines  in  his  young  forehead !  —  as  he 
leans  upon  the  lap  of  his  mother,  with  his  eye  turned  to 
her  in  some  earnest  pleading  for  a  fancied  pleasure  of 
the  hour,  or  in  some  important  story  of  his  griefs,  that 
such  sharing  of  his  sorrows,  and  such  sympathy  with 
his  wishes,  he  will  find  nowhere  again. 

Little  does  he  imagine  that  the  fond  Nelly,  ever 
thoughtful  of  his  pleasure,  ever  smiling  away  his  griefs, 


A   HOME  SCENE.  87 

will  soon  be  beyond  the  reach  of  either,  and  that  the 
waves  of  the  years,  which  come  rocking  so  gently  under 
him,  will  soon  toss  her  far  away  upon  the  great  swell 
of  life. 

But  710W  you  are  there.  The  firelight  glimmers 
upon  the  walls  of  your  cherished  home,  like  the  Vestal 
fire  of  old  upon  the  figures  of  adoring  virgins,  or  like 
the  flame  of  Hebrew  sacrifice,  w^hose  incense  bore 
hearts  to  Heaven.  The  big  chair  of  your  father  is 
drawn  to  its  wonted  corner  by  the  chinmey-side ;  his 
head,  just  touched  with  gray,  lies  back  upon  its  oaken 
top.  Little  Nelly  leans  upon  his  knee,  looking  up  for 
some  reply  to  her  girlish  questionings.  Opposite  sits 
your  mother :  her  figure  is  thin,  her  look  cheerful,  yet 
subdued  ;  her  arm  perhaps  resting  on  your  shoulder,  as 
she  talks  to  you  in  tones  of  tender  admonition  of  the 
days  that  are  to  come. 

The  cat  is  purring  on  the  hearth  ;  the  clock,  that 
ticked  so  plainly  when  Charlie  died,  is  ticking  on  the 
mantel  still.  The  great  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  with  its  books  and  work  waits  only  for  the  lighting 
of  the  evening  lamp,  to  see  a  return  to  its  stores  of 
embroidery,  and  of  story. 

Upon  a  little  stand  under  the  mirror,  which  catches 
now  and  then  a  flicker  of  the  firelight,  and  makes  it 
play  wantonly  over  the  ceiling,  lies  that  big  book  rev- 
erenced of  your   New-England  parents,  —  the  Family 


88  DREAM-LIFE. 

Bible.  It  is  a  ponderous  square  volume,  with  heavy 
silver  clasps  that  you  have  often  pressed  open  for  a 
look  at  its  quaint  old  pictures,  or  for  a  study  of  those 
prettily  bordered  pages  which  lie  between  the  Testa- 
ments, and  which  hold  the  Family  Record. 

There  are  the  Births,  —  your  father's,  and  your  moth- 
er's ;  it  seems  as  if  they  were  bom  a  long  time  ago ; 
and  even  your  own  date  of  birth  appears  an  almost 
incredible  distance  back.  Then  there  are  the  mar- 
riages, —  only  one  as  yet ;  and  your  mother's  maiden 
name  looks  oddly  to  you :  it  is  hard  to  think  of  her  as 
any  one  else  than  your  doting  parent.  You  wonder  if 
your  name  will  ever  come  under  that  paging  ;  and  won- 
der, though  you  scarce  whisper  the  wonder  to  yourself, 
how  another  name  would  look,  just  below  yours, —  such 
a  name,  for  instance,  as  Fanny,  or  as  Miss  Margaret 
BojTie ! 

Last  of  all  come  the  Deaths,  —  only  one.  Poor 
Charlie  !  How  it  looks  ?  —  «  Died  12  September  18— 
Charles  Henry,  aged  four  years."  You  know  just  how 
it  looks.  You  have  turned  to  it  often  ;  there  you  seem 
to  be  joined  to  him,  though  only  by  the  turning  of  a 
leaf  And  over  your  thoughts,  as  you  look  at  that  page 
of  the  record,  there  sometimes  wanders  a  vague  shad- 
owy fear,  which  will  come,  —  that  your  own  name  may 
soon  be  there.  You  try  to  drop  the  notion,  as  if  it  were 
not  fairly  your  own  ;  you  affect  to  slight  it,  as  you  would 


A  HOME  SCENE.  89 

slight  a  boy  who  presumed  on  your  acquaintance,  but 
whom  you  have  no  desire  to  know.  It  is  a  common 
thing,  you  will  find,  with  our  world  to  decline  familiarity 
with  those  ideas  that  fright  us. 

Yet  your  mother  —  how  strange  it  is  !  —  has  no  fears 
of  such  dark  fancies.  Even  now  as  you  stand  beside 
her,  and  as  the  twilight  deepens  in  the  room,  her  low, 
silvery  voice  is  stealing  upon  your  ear,  telling  you  that 
she  cannot  be  long  with  you ;  that  the  time  is  coming 
when  you  must  be  guided  by  your  own  judgment,  and 
struggle  with  the  world  unaided  by  the  friends  of  your 
boyhood.  There  is  a  little  pride,  and  a  great  deal  more 
of  anxiety,  in  your  thoughts  now,  as  you  look  stead- 
fastly into  the  home  blaze,  while  those  delicate  fingers, 
so  tender  of  your  happiness,  play  with  the  locks  upon 
your  brow. 

To  struggle  with  the  world,  —  that  is  a  proud 

thing ;  to  struggle  alone,  —  there  lies  the  doubt !  Then 
crowds  in  swift  upon  the  calm  of  boyhood  the  first 
anxious  thought  of  youth  ;  then  chases  over  the  sky  of 
Spring  the  first  heated  and  wrathful  cloud  of  Summer 

But  the  lamps  are  now  lit  in  the  little  parlor,  and 
they  shed  a  soft  haze  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room ;  while  the  firelight  streams  over  the  floor,  where 
puss  lies  purring.  Little  Madge  is  there ;  she  has 
dropped  in  softly  with  her  mother,  and  Nelly  has  wel- 
comed her  with  a  bound  and  with  a  kiss.     Jenny  has 


90  DREAM-LIFE. 

not  so  rosy  a  cheek  as  Madge.  But  Jenny  with  her 
love-notes,  and  her  languishing  dark  eye,  you  think  of 
as  a  lady ;  and  the  thought  of  her  is  a  constant  drain 
upon  your  sentiment.  As  for  Madge,  —  that  girl  Madge, 
whom  you  know  so  well,  —  you  think  of  her  as  a  sis- 
ter ;  and  yet  —  it  is  very  odd  —  you  look  at  her  far 
oflener  than  you  do  at  Nelly ! 

Frank  too  has  come  in  to  have  a  game  with  you  at 
draughts ;  and  he  is  in  capital  spirits,  all  brisk  and 
glowing  with  his  evening's  walk.  He  —  bless  his  hon- 
est heart !  —  never  observes  that  you  arrange  the  board 
very  adroitly,  so  that  you  may  keep  half  an  eye  upon 
Madge,  as  she  sits  yonder  beside  Nelly.  Nor  does  he 
once  notice  your  blush  as  you  catch  her  eye  when  she 
raises  her  head  to  fling  back  the  ringlets,  and  then 
with  a  sly  look  at  you  bends  a  most  earnest  gaze  upon 
the  board,  as  if  she  were  especially  interested  in  the 
disposition  of  the  men. 

You  catch  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  coquetry  yourself, — 
(what  a  native  growth  it  is  !)  —  and  if  she  lift  her  eyes 
when  you  are  gazing  at  her,  you  very  suddenly  divert 
your  look  to  the  cat  at  her  feet,  and  remark  to  your 
friend  Frank  in  an  easy  off-hand  way  —  how  still  the 
cat  is  lying ! 

And  Frank  turns  —  thinking  probably,  if  he  thinks 
at  all  about  it,  that  cats  are  very  apt  to  lie  still  when 
they  sleep. 


A   HOME  SCENE.  91 

As  for  Nelly,  half  neglected  by  your  thought  as  well 
as  by  your  eye,  while  mischievous-looking  Madge  is  sit- 
ting by  her,  you  little  know  as  yet  what  kindness,  what 
gentleness,  you  are  careless  of.  Few  loves  in  life,  and 
you  will  learn  it  before  life  is  done,  can  balance  the 
lost  love  of  a  sister. 

As  for  your  parents,  in  the  intervals  of  the  game  you 
listen  dreamily  to  their  talk  with  the  mother  of  Madge, 
—  good  Mrs.  Boyne.  It  floats  over  your  mind,  as  you 
rest  your  chin  upon  your  clenched  hand,  like  a  strain 
of  old  familiar  nnisic,  —  a  household  strain  that  seems 
to  belong  to  the  habit  of  your  ear,  —  a  strain  that  will 
linger  about  it  melodiously  for  many  years  to  come,  — 
a  strain  that  will  be  recalled  long  time  hence,  when  life 
is  earnest  and  its  cares  heavy,  with  tears  of  regret  and 
with  sighs  of  bitterness. 

By-and-by  your  game  is  done ;  and  other  games,  in 
which  join  Nelly  (the  tears  come  when  you  write  her 
name  noto!)  and  Madge,  (the  smiles  come  when  you 
look  on  her  then,)  stretch  out  that  sweet  eventide  of 
Home,  until  the  lamp  flickers,  and  you  speak  your 
friends  —  adieu.  To  Madge,  it  is  said  boldly,  —  a  bold- 
ness put  on  to  conceal  a  little  lurking  tremor ;  but  there 
is  no  tremor  in  the  home  good-night. 

Aye,   my   boy,   kiss    your   mother,  —  kiss   her 

again ;  fondle  your  sweet  Nelly  ;  pass  your  little  hand 
through   the   gray   locks   of   your   father;   love   them 


92  DREAM-LIFE. 

dearly  while  you  can  !     Make  your  good-nights  linger 
and  make  your  adieus  long,  and  sweet,  and  often  re- 
peated.    Love  with  your  whole  soul,  —  Father,  Mother, 
and  Sister,  —  for  these  loves  shall  die  ! 

Not  indeed   in   thought,  —  God   be   thanked ! 

Nor  yet  in  tears,  —  for  He  is  merciful !  But  they  shall 
die,  as  the  leaves  die,  —  die,  as  Spring  dies  into  the 
heat  and  ripeness  of  Summer,  and  as  boyhood  dies 
into  the  elasticity  and  ambition  of  youth.  Death,  Dis- 
tance, and  Time  shall  each  one  of  them  dig  graves  for 
your  affections ;  but  this  you  do  not  know,  nor  can 
know,  until  the  stoiy  of  your  life  is  ended. 

The  dreams  of  riches,  of  love,  of  voyage,  of  learning, 
that  light  up  the  boy  age  with  splendor,  will  pass  on 
and  over  into  the  hotter  dreams  of  youth.  Spring  buds 
and  blossoms,  under  the  glowing  sun  of  Aj^ril,  nurture 
at  their  heart  those  firstlings  of  fruit  which  the  heat 
of  summer  shall  ripen. 

You  little  know  —  and  for  this  you  may  well  thank 
Heaven  —  that  you  are  leaving  the  Spring  of  life,  and 
that  you  are  floating  fast  from  the  shady  sources  of 
your  years  into  heat,  bustle,  and  storm.  Your  dreams 
are  now  faint,  flickering  shadows,  that  play  like  fire-flies 
in  the  coppices  of  leafy  June.  They  have  no  rule  but 
the  rule  of  infantile  desire;  they  have  no  joys  to 
promise  greater  than  the  joys  that  belong  to  your  pass- 
ing life ;  they  have  no  terrors  but  such  terrors  as  the 


.4   HOME    SCENE.  93 

darkness  of  a  Spring  night  makes.  They  do  not  take 
hold  on  your  soul  as  the  dreams  of  youth  and  manhood 
will  do. 

Your  highest  hope  is  shadowed  in  a  cheerful,  boyish 
home.  You  wish  no  friends  but  the  friends  of  boy- 
hood ;  no  sister  but  your  fond  Nelly ;  none  to  love  bet- 
ter than  the  playful  Madge. 

You  forget,  Clarence,  that  the  Spring  with  you  is 
the  Spring  with  them,  and  that  the  storms  of  Summer 
may  chase  wide  shadows  over  your  path  and  over 
theirs.  And  you  forget  that  Summer  is  even  now 
lowering  Avith  its  mist,  and  with  its  scorching  rays, 
upon  the  hem  of  your  flowery  May ! 

The  liands  of  the  old  clock  upon  the  mantel, 

that  ticked  off  the  hours  when  Charlie  sighed  and 
when  Charlie  died,  draw  on  toward  midnight.  The 
shadows  that  the  fire-flame  makes  grow  dimmer  and 
dimmer.  And  thus  it  is  that  Home,  boy  home,  passes 
away  forever, — like  the  swaying  of  a  pendulum,  —  like 
the  fadincf  of  a  shadow  on  the  floor  ! 


SUM3IEE  ; 

OK, 

THE  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 


BREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 


Summer. 


I  FEEL  a  great  deal  of  pity  for  those  honest  but 
misguided  people  who  call  their  little,  spruce  sub- 
urban towns,  or  the  shaded  streets  of  their  inland  cities, 
—  the  country  and  I  have  still  more  pity  for  those 
who  reckon  a  season  at  the  summer  resorts  —  country 
enjoyment.  Nay,  my  feeling  is  more  violent  than  pity ; 
and  I  count  it  nothing  less  than  blasphemy  so  to  take 
the  name  of  the  country  in  vain. 

I  thank  Heaven  every  summer's  day  of  my  life,  that 
my  lot  was  humbly  cast  within  the  hearing  of  romping 
brooks,  and  beneath  the  shadow  of  oaks.  And  from 
all  the  tramp  and  bustle  of  the  world  into  which  for- 
tune has  led  me  in  these  latter  years  of  my  life,  I  de- 
light to  steal  away  for  days,  and  for  weeks  together, 
and  bathe  my  spirit  in  the  freedom  of  the  old  woods ; 
and  to  grow  young  again,  lying  upon  the  brook-side, 
and  counting  the  white  clouds  that  sail  along  the  sky 
softly  and  tranquilly  —  even  as  holy  memories  go  steal- 
ing over  the  vault  of  life. 


98  DREAM-LIFE. 

I  am  deeply  thankful  that  I  could  never  find  it  in 
my  heart  so  to  pervert  truth  as  to  call  the  smart  vil- 
lages with  the  tricksy  shadow  of  their  maple  avenues 

—  the  Country. 

I  love  these  in  their  way,  and  can  recall  pleasant 
passages  of  thought,  as  I  have  idled  through  the  Sab- 
bath-looking towns,  or  lounged  at  the  inn-door  of  some 
quiet  New-England  village.  But  I  love  far  better  to 
leave  them  behind  me,  and  to  dash  boldly  out  to  where 
some  out  -  lying  farm  -  house  sits  —  like  a  sentinel  — 
under  the  shelter  of  wooded  hills,  or  nestles  in  the  lap 
of  a  noiseless  valley. 

In  the  town,  small  as  it  may  be,  and  darkened  as  it 
may  be  with  the  shadows  of  trees,  you  cannot  forget 

—  men.  Their  voice,  and  strife,  and  ambition  come  to 
your  eye  in  the  jDainted  paling,  in  the  swinging  sign- 
board of  the  tavern,  and  —  worst  of  all  —  in  the  trim- 
printed  "Attorney  at  Law."  Even  the  little  milli- 
ner's shop,  with  its  meagre  show  of  leghorns,  and  its 
string  across  the  window  all  hung  with  tabs  and  with 
cloth  roses,  is  a  sad  epitome  of  the  great  and  conven- 
tional life  of  a  city  neighborhood. 

I  like  to  be  rid  of  them  all,  as  I  am  rid  of  them  this 
midsummer's  day.  I  like  to  steeps  my  soul  in  a  sea  of 
quiet,  with  nothing  floating  past  me,  as  I  lie  moored 
to  my  thought,  but  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  soaring 
birds,  and  shadows  of  clouds. 


SUMMER.  99 

Two  days  since  I  was  sweltering  in  the  heat  of  the 
City,  jostled  by  the  thousand  eager  Avorkers,  and  pant- 
ing under  the  shadow  of  the  walls.  But  I  have  stolen 
away;  and  for  two  hours  of  healthful  regrowth  into 
the  darling  Past  I  have  been  lying  this  blessed  sum- 
mer's morning  upon  the  grassy  bank  of  a  stream  that 
babbled  me  to  sleep  in  boyhood.  —  Dear  old  stream, 
unchanging,  unfaltering,  —  with  no  harsher  notes  now 
than  then,  —  never  growing  old,  —  smiling  in  your  sil- 
ver rustle,  and  calming  yourself  in  the  broad,  placid 
pools,  —  I  love  you  as  I  love  a  friend! 

But  now  that  the  sun  has  grown  scalding  hot,  and 
the  waves  of  heat  have  come  rocking  under  the  shadow 
of  the  meadow-oaks,  I  have  sought  shelter  in  a  cham- 
ber of  the  old  farm-house.  The  window-blinds  are 
closed;  but  some  of  them  are  sadly  shattered,  and  I 
have  intertwined  in  them  a  few  branches  of  the  late- 
blossoming  white  azalia,  so  that  every  puff  of  the  sum- 
mer air  comes  to  me  cooled  with  fragrance.  A  dimple 
or  two  of  the  sunlight  still  steals  through  my  flowery 
screen,  and  dances  (as  the  breeze  moves  the  branches) 
upon  the  oaken  floor  of  the  farm-house- 
Through  one  little  gap  indeed  I  can  see  the  broad 
stretch  of  meadow,  and  the  workmen  in  the  field  bend- 
ing and  swaying  to  their  scythes.  I  can  see  too  the 
glistening  of  the  steel,  as  they  wipe  their  blades,  and 
can  just  catch  floating  on  the  air  the  measured,  tinkling 
thwack  of  the  rifle-stroke. 


100  DREAM-LIFE. 

Here  and  there  a  lark,  scared  from  his  feeding-place 
in  the  grass,  soars  up,  bubbling  forth  his  melody  in 
globules  of  silvery  sound,  and  settles  upon  some  tall 
tree,  and  waves  his  wings,  and  sinks  to  the  swaying 
twigs.  I  hear  too  a  quail  piping  from  the  meadow 
fence,  and  another  trilling  his  answering  whistle  from 
the  hills.  Nearer  by,  a  tyrant  king-bird  is  poised  on 
the  topmost  branch  of  a  veteran  pear-tree,  and  now 
and  then  dashes  down,  assassin-like,  upon  some  home- 
bound,  honey-laden  bee,  and  then  with  a  smack  of  his 
bill  resumes  his  predatory  watch. 

A  chicken  or  two  lie  in  the  sun,  with  a  wing  and  a 
leg  stretched  out,  —  lazily  picking  at  the  gravel,  or 
relieving  their  e7inui  from  time  to  time  with  a  spas- 
modic rustle  of  their  feathers.  An  old,  matronly  hen 
stalks  about  the  yard  with  a  sedate  step,  and  with  quiet 
self-assurance  she  utters  an  occasional  series  of  hoarse 
and  heated  clucks.  A  speckled  turkey,  with  an  aston- 
ished brood  at  her  heels,  is  eying  curiously,  and  with 
earnest  variations  of  the  head,  a  full-fed  cat,  that  lies 
curled  up,  and  dozing,  upon  the  floor  of  the  cottage 
porch. 

As  I  sit  thus,  watching  through  the  interstices  of  my 
leafy  screen  the  various  images  of  country  life,  I  hear 
distant  mutterings  from  beyond  the  hills. 

The  sun  has  thrown  its  shadow  upon  the  pewter  dial 
two  hours  beyond  the  meridian  line.      Great  cream- 


SUMMER.  101 

colored  heads  of  thunder-clouds  are  lifting  above  the 
sharp,  clear  line  of  the  western  horizon ;  the  light 
breeze  dies  away,  and  the  air  becomes  stifling,  even 
under  the  shadow  of  my  withered  boughs  in  the  cham- 
ber-window. The  white-capped  clouds  roll  up  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  sun,  and  the  creamy  masses  below 
grow  dark  in  their  seams.  The  mutterings,  that  came 
faintly  before,  now  spread  into  wide  volumes  of  rolling 
sound,  that  echo  again  and  again  from  the  eastward 
heights. 

I  hear  in  the  deep  intervals  the  men  shouting  to 
their  teams  in  the  meadows ;  and  great  companies  of 
startled  swallows  are  dashing  in  all  directions  around 
the  gray  roofs  of  the  barn. 

The  clouds  have  now  welluigh  reached  the  sun, 
which  seems  to  shine  the  fiercer  for  his  coming  eclipse. 
The  whole  west,  as  I  look  from  the  sources  of  the  brook 
to  its  lazy  drift  under  the  swamps  that  lie  to  the  south, 
is  hung  with  a  curtain  of  darkness ;  and  like  swift-work- 
ing, golden  ropes,  that  hft  it  toward  the  zenith,  long 
chains  of  lightning  flash  through  it ;  and  the  growing 
thunder  seems  like  the  rumble  of  the  pulleys. 

I  thrust  away  my  azalia-boughs,  and  fling  back  the 
shattered  blinds,  as  the  sun  and  the  clouds  meet,  and 
my  room  darkens  with  the  coming  shadows.  For  an 
instant  the  edges  of  the  thick,  creamy  masses  of  cloud 
are  gilded  by  the  shrouded  sun,  and  show  gorgeous 


102  DREAM-LIFE. 

scallops  of  gold,  that  toss  upon  the  hem  of  the  storm. 
But  the  blazonry  fades  as  the  clouds  mount;  and  the 
brightening  lines  of  the  lightning  dart  up  from  the 
lower  skirts,  and  heave  the  billowy  masses  into  the 
middle  heaven. 

The  workmen  are  urging  their  oxen  fast  across 
the  meadow,  and  the  loiterers  come  straggling  after 
with  rakes  upon  their  shoulders.  The  matronly  hen 
has  retreated  to  the  stable-door ;  and  the  brood  of 
turkeys  stand  dressing  their  feathers  under  the  open 
shed. 

The  air  freshens,  and  blows  now  from  the  face  of  the 
coming  clouds.  I  see  the  great  elms  in  the  plain  sway- 
ing their  tops,  even  before  the  storm-breeze  has  reached 
me ;  and  a  bit  of  ripened  grain  upon  a  swell  of  the 
meadow  waves  and  tosses  like  a  billowy  sea. 

Presently  I  hear  the  rush  of  the  wind;  and  the 
cherry-  and  pear-trees  rustle  through  all  their  leaves  ; 
and  my  paper  is  whisked  away  by  the  intruding  blast. 

There  is  a  quiet  of  a  moment,  in  which  the  wind 
even  seems  weary  and  faint,  and  nothing  finds  utter- 
ance save  one  hoarse  tree  -  toad,  doling  out  his  lugu- 
brious notes. 

Now  comes  a  blinding  flash  from  the  clouds,  and  a 
quick,  sharp  clang  clatters  through  the  heavens,  and 
bellows  loud  and  long  among  the  hills.  Then  —  like 
great  grief  spending  its  pent  agony  in  tears  — come  the 


SUMMER.  103 

big  drops  of  rain,  —  pattering  on  the  lawn  and  on  the 
leaves,  and  most  musically  of  all  upon  the  roof  above 
me,  —  not  now  with  the  light  fall  of  the  Spring  shower, 
but  with  strong  steppings,  like  the  first  proud  tread 
of  Youth! 


Cloister  Life. 

"TT  has  very  likely  occurred  to  you,  my  reader,  that  I 
-*-  am  playing  the  wanton  in  these  sketches,  and  am 
breaking  through  all  the  canons  of  the  writers  in  mak- 
ing You  my  hero. 

It  is  even  so  ;  for  my  work  is  a  story  of  those  vague 
feelings,  doubts,  passions,  which  belong  more  or  less  to 
every  man  of  us  all ;  and  therefore  it  is  that  I  lay  upon 
your  shoulders  the  burden  of  these  dreams.  If  this  or 
that  one  never  belonged  to  your  experience,  have  pa- 
tience for  a  while.  I  feel  sure  that  others  are  coming 
which  will  lie  like  a  truth  upon  your  heart,  and  draw 
you  unwittingly  —  perhaps  tearfully  even  —  into  the 
belief  that  You  are  indeed  my  hero. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  the  cloister  of  a  college ; 
not  the  gray,  classic  cloisters  which  lie  along  the  banks 
of  the  Cam  or  the  Isis,  —  huge,  battered  hulks,  on 
whose  weather-stained  decks  great  captains  of  learning 
have  fought  away  their  lives,  —  nor  yet  the  cavernous, 
quadrangular  courts  that  sleep  under  the  dingy  walls  of 
the  Sorbonne. 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  105 

The  youth-dreams  of  Clarence  begin  under  the  roof 
of  one  of  those  long,  ungainly  piles  of  brick  and  mor- 
tar which  make  the  colleges  of  New  England. 

The  floor  of  the  room  is  rough,  and  divided  by  wide 
seams.  The  study-table  does  not  stand  firmly  without 
a  few  spare  pennies  to  prop  it  into  sohd  footing.  The 
bookcase  of  stained  fir -wood,  suspended  against  the 
wall  by  cords,  is  meagrely  stocked  witn  a  couple  of 
Lexicons,  a  pair  of  Grammars,  a  Euclid,  a  Xenophon,  a 
Homer,  and  a  Livy.  Beside  these  are  scattered  about 
here  and  there  a  thumb- worn  copy  of  British  ballads, 
an  odd  volume  of  the  "  Sketch-Book,"  a  clumsy  Shaks- 
peare,  and  a  pocket  edition  of  the  Bible. 

"With  such  appliances,  added  to  the  half-score  of  pro- 
fessors and  tutors  who  preside  over  the  awful  precincts, 
you  are  to  work  your  way  up  to  that  proud  entrance 
upon  our  American  life  which  begins  with  the  Bacca- 
laureate degree.  There  is  a  tingling  sensation  in  first 
walking  under  the  shadow  of  those  walls,  uncouth  as 
they  are,  and  in  feeling  that  you  belong  to  them, —  that 
you  are  a  member,  as  it  were,  of  the  body-corporate, 
subject  to  an  actual  code  of  printed  laws,  and  to  actual 
moneyed  fines  varying  from  a  shilling  to  fifty  cents  ! 

There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  your  subject  state,  and  in  the  necessity  of 
measuring  your  hours  by  the  habit  of  such  a  learned 
sommimity.  You  tliink  back  upon  your  respect  for  the 
5* 


106  DREAM-LIFE. 

lank  figure  of  some  old  teacher  of  boy-days  as  a  child- 
ish weakness  ;  even  the  little  coteries  of  the  home  fire- 
side lose  their  importance  when  compared  with  the  ex- 
traordinary sweep  and  dignity  of  your  present  position. 

It  is  pleasant  to  measure  yourself  with  men ;  and 
there  are  those  about  you  who  seem  to  your  untaught 
eye  to  be  men  already.  Your  chum,  a  hard-faced  fel- 
low of  ten  more  years  than  you,  digging  sturdily  at  his 
tasks,  seems  by  that  very  community  of  work  to  dignify 
your  labor.  You  watch  his  cold,  gray  eye  bending  down 
over  some  theorem  of  Euclid,  with  a  kind  of  proud 
companionship  in  what  so  tasks  his  manliness. 

It  is  nothing  for  him  to  quit  sleep  at  the  first  tinkling 
of  the  alarm-clock  that  hangs  in  your  chamber,  or  to 
brave  the  weather  in  that  cheerless  run  to  the  morning 
prayers  of  winter.  Yet  with  what  a  dreamy  horror  you 
wake  on  mornings  of  snow  to  that  tinkling  alarum  !  — 
and  glide  in  the  cold  and  darkness  under  the  shadow 
of  the  college-walls,  shuddering  under  the  sharp  gusts 
that  come  sweeping  between  the  buildings,  —  and  af- 
terward, gathering  yourself  up  in  your  cloak,  watch  in 
a  sleepy,  listless  maze  the  flickering  lamps  that  hang 
around  the  dreary  chapel !  You  follow  half  uncon- 
sciously some  tutor's  rhetorical  reading  of  a  chapter  of 
Isaiah  ;  and  then,  as  he  closes  the  Bible  with  a  flourish, 
your  eye,  half  open,  catches  the  feeble  figure  of  the  old 
Dominie  as  he  steps  to  the  desk,  and,  with  his  frail 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  107 

hands  stretched  out  ui^on  the  cover  of  the  big  book, 
and  his  head  leaning  shghtly  to  one  side,  runs  through 
in  gentle  and  tremulous  tones  his  wonted  form  of  invo- 
cation. 

Your  Division  room  is  steaming  with  foul  heat,  and 
there  is  a  strong  smell  of  burnt  feathers  and  oil.  A 
jaunty  tutor  with  pug  nose  and  consequential  air  steps 
into  the  room  —  while  you  all  rise  to  show  him  def- 
erence —  and  takes  his  place  at  the  pulpit-like  desk. 
Then  come  the  formal  loosing  of  his  camlet  cloak-clasp, 
—  the  opening  of  his  sweaty  Xenophon  to  where  the 
day's  parasa.igs  begin,  —  the  unsliding  of  his  silver 
pencil-case,  —  the  keen,  sour  look  around  the  benches, 
and  the  cool  pinch  of  his  thumb  and  forefinger  into  the 
fearful  box  of  names  ! 

How  you  listen  for  each  as  it  is  uttered,  —  running 
down  the  page  in  advance,  —  rejoicing  when  some  hard 
passage  comes  to  a  stout  man  in  the  corner  ;  and  what 
a  sigh  of  relief — on  mornings  after  you  have  been  out 
late  at  night  —  when  the  last  paragraph  is  reached,  the 
ballot  drawn,  and  —  you,  safe ! 

You  speculate  dreamily  upon  the  faces  around  you. 
You  wonder  what  sort  of  schooling  they  may  have  had, 
and  what  sort  of  homes.  You  think  one  man  has  got 
an  extraordinary  name,  and  another  a  still  more  ex- 
traordinary nose.  The  glib,  easy  way  of  one  student, 
and  his  perfect  sang-froid,  completely  charm  you :  you 


108  DREAM-LIFE. 

set  him  down  in  your  own  mind  as  a  kind  of  Crichton. 
Another  weazen-faced,  pinched-up  fellow  in  a  scant 
cloak,  you  think  must  have  been  sometime  a  school- 
master: he  is  so  very  precise,  and  wears  such  an  in- 
describable look  of  the  ferule.  There  is  one  big  student, 
with  a  huge  beard  and  a  rollicking  good-natured  eye, 
whom  you  would  quite  like  to  see  measure  strength 
with  your  old  usher,  and  on  careful  comparison  rather 
think  the  usher  would  get  the  worst  of  it.  Another 
appears  as  venerable  as  some  fathers  you  have  seen ; 
and  it  seems  wonderfully  odd  that  a  man  old  enough 
to  have  children  should  recite  Xenophon  by  morning 
candle-light ! 

The  class  in  advance  you  study  curiously  ;  and  are 
quite  amazed  at  the  precocity  of  certain  youths  belong- 
ing to  it,  who  are  apparently  about  your  own  age.  The 
Juniors  you  look  upon  with  a  quiet  reverence  for  their 
aplomb  and  dignity  of  character ;  and  look  forward 
with  intense  yearnings  to  the  time  when  you  too  shall 
be  admitted  freely  to  the  precincts  of  the  Philosophical 
chamber,  and  to  the  very  steep  benches  of  the  Labo- 
ratory. This  last  seems,  from  occasional  peeps  through 
the  blinds,  a  most  mysterious  building.  The  chimneys, 
recesses,  vats,  and  cisterns  —  to  say  nothing  of  certain 
galvanic  communications,  which,  you  are  told,  traverse 
the  whole  building  in  a  way  capable  of  killing  a  rat 
at  an  incredible  remove  from  the  bland  professor  — 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  109 

Utterly  fatigue  your  wonder !  You  humbly  trust  — • 
though  you  have  doubts  upon  the  point  —  that  you  will 
have  the  capacity  to  grasp  it  all,  when  once  you  shall 
have  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  Junior. 

As  for  the  Seniors,  your  admiration  for  them  is  en- 
tirely boundless.  In  one  or  two  individual  instances, 
it  is  true,  it  has  been  broken  down  by  an  unfortunate 
squabble  with  thick-set  fellows  in  the  Chapel  aisle.  A 
person  who  sits  not  far  before  you  at  prayers,  and  whose 
name  you  seek  out  very  early,  bears  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  some  portrait  of  Dr.  Johnson  ;  you  have  very 
much  the  same  kind  of  respect  for  him  tliat  you  feel 
for  the  great  lexicographer,  and  do  not  for  a  moment 
doubt  his  capacity  to  compile  a  dictionary  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  Johnson's. 

Another  man  with  very  bushy,  black  hair,  and  an 
easy  look  of  importance,  carries  a  large  cane,  and  is 
represented  to  you  as  an  astonishing  scholar  and  speaker. 
You  do  not  doubt  it ;  his  very  air  proclaims  it.  You 
think  of  him  as  presently  —  (say  four  or  five  years 
hence)  —  astounding  the  United  States  Senate  with  his 
eloquence.  And  when  once  you  have  heard  him  in 
debate,  with  that  inefflible  gesture  of  his,  you  absolutely 
languish  in  your  admiration  for  him,  and  you  describe 
his  speaking  to  your  country  friends  as  very  little  in- 
ferior, if  at  all,  to  Mr.  Burke's.  Beside  this  one  are 
some   half  dozen   others,   among   whom   the   question 


no  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  superiority  is,  you  understand,  strongly  mooted. 
It  puzzles  you  to  think,  what  an  avalanche  of  talent 
will  fall  upon  the  country  at  the  graduation  of  those 
Seniors  ! 

You  will  find  however  that  the  country  bears  such 
inundations  of  college  talent  Avith  a  remarkable  degree 
of  equanimity.  It  is  quite  wonderful  how  all  the 
Burkes,  and  Scotts,  and  Peels,  among  college  Seniors, 
do  quietly  disappear,  as  a  man  gets  on  in  life. 

As  for  any  degree  of  fellowship  with  such  giants,  it 
is  an  honor  hardly  to  be  thought  of.  But  you  have 
a  classmate  —  I  will  call  him  Dalton  —  who  is  very 
intimate  with  a  dashing  Senior ;  they  room  near  each 
other  outside  the  college.  You  quite  envy  Dalton,  and 
you  come  to  know  him  well.  He  says  that  you  are  not 
a  "green-one,"  —  that  you  have  "cut  your  eye-teeth"; 
in  return  for  which  comiilimentary  ojDinions  you  enter- 
tain a  strong  friendship  for  Dalton. 

He  is  a  "  fast "  fellow,  as  the  Senior  calls  him  ;  and  it 
is  a  proud  thing  to  happen  at  their  rooms  occasionally, 
and  to  match  yourself  for  an  hour  or  two  (with  the 
windows  darkened)  against  a  Senior  at  "old  sledge." 
It  is  quite  "  the  thing,"  as  Dalton  says,  to  meet  a  Senior 
familiarly  in  the  street.  Sometimes  you  go,  after  Dalton 
has  taught  jow  "the  ropes,"  to  have  a  cosy  sit-down  over 
oysters  and  champagne,  —  to  which  the  Senior  lends 
himself  with  the  pleasantest  condescension  in  the  world. 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  Ill 

You  are  not  altogether  used  to  hard  drinking ;  but  this 
you  conceal  —  as  most  spirited  young  fellows  do  —  by 
di'inkinfi:  a  great  deal.  You  have  a  dim  recollection 
of  certain  circumstances  —  very  unimportant,  yet  very 
vividly  impressed  on  your  mind  —  which  occurred  on 
one  of  these  occasions. 

The  oysters  were  exceedingly  fine,  and  the  cham- 
pagne exquisite.  You  have  a  recollection  of  some- 
thing being  said,  toward  the  end  of  the  first  bottle,  of 
Xenophon,  and  of  the  Senior's  saying  in  his  playful 
way,  "  Oh,  d — n  Xenophon  !  " 

You  remember  Dalton  laughed  at  this ;  and  you 
laughed  —  for  company.  You  remember  that  you 
thought,  and  Dalton  thought,  and  the  Senior  thought, 
by  a  singular  coincidence,  that  the  second  bottle  of 
champagne  was  better  even  than  the  first.  You  have 
a  dim  remembrance  of  the  Senior's  saying  very  loudly, 
"  Clarence  —  (calling  you  by  your  family  name)  —  is 
no  spooney  ; "  and  drinking  a  bumper  with  you  in  con- 
firmation of  the  remark. 

You  remember  that  Dalton  broke  out  into  a  song, 
and  that  for  a  time  you  joined  in  the  chorus  ;  you  think 
the  Senior  called  you  to  order  for  repeating  the  chorus 
in  the  wrong  place.  You  think  the  lights  burned  with 
remarkable  brilliancy ;  and  you  remember  that  a  remark 
of  yours  to  that  effect  met  with  very  much  such  a  re- 
sponse from  the  Senior  as  he  had  before  employed  with 
reference  to  Xenophon. 


112  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  have  a  confused  idea  of  calling  Dalton  —  Xen- 
ophon.  You  think  the  meeting  broke  up  with  a  chorus, 
and  that  somebody  —  you  cannot  tell  who  —  broke  two 
or  three  glasses.  You  remember  questioning  yourself 
very  seriously  as  to  whether  you  were,  or  were  not, 
tipsy.  You  think  you  decided  that  you  were  not,  but  — 
might  be. 

You  have  a  confused  recollection  of  leaning  upon 
some  one,  or  something,  going  to  your  room ;  this  sense 
of  a  desire  to  lean,  you  think,  was  very  strong.  You 
remember  being  horribly  afflicted  with  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing tried  your  night-key  at  the  tutor's  door,  instead  of 
your  own ;  you  remember  further  a  hot  stove,  —  made 
certain  indeed  by  a  large  blister  which  appeared  on 
your  hand  next  day.  You  think  of  throwing  off  your 
clothes  by  one  or  two  spasmodic  efforts,  —  leaning  in 
the  intervals  against  the  bedpost. 

There  is  a  recollection  of  an  uncommon  dizziness 
afterward,  as  if  your  body  was  very  quiet,  and  your 
head  gyrating  with  strange  velocity,  and  a  kind  of  cen- 
trifugal action,  all  about  the  room,  and  the  college,  and 
indeed  the  whole  town.  You  think  that  you  felt  uncon- 
trollable nausea  after  this,  followed  by  positive  sickness, 
—  which  waked  your  chum,  who  thought  you  very  inco- 
herent, and  feared  derangement. 

A  dismal  state  of  lassitude  follows,  broken  by  the 
college-clock  striking  three,  and  by  very  rambling  re- 


CLOISTER   LIFE.  113 

flections  upon  champagne,  Xenophon,  "  Captain  Dick," 
Madge,  and  the  old  deacon  who  clinched  his  wig  in  the 
church. 

The  next  morning  (ah,  how  vexatious  that  all  our 
follies  are  followed  by  a  "  next  morning !  ")  you  wake 
with  a  parched  mouth,  and  a  torturing  thirst ;  the  sun 
is  shining  broadly  into  your  reeking  chamber.  Prayers 
and  recitations  are  long  ago  over ;  and  you  see  through 
the  door  in  the  outer  room  that  hard-faced  chum  with 
his  Lexicon  and  Livy  open  before  him,  working  out 
with  all  the  earnestness  of  his  iron  purpose  the  steady 
steps  toward  preferment  and  success. 

You  go  with  some  story  of  sudden  sickness  to  the 
tutor,  —  half  fearful  that  the  bloodshot,  swollen  eyes 
will  betray  you.  It  is  very  mortifying  tot)  to  meet  Dal- 
ton  appearing  so  gay  and  lively  after  it  all,  while  you 
wear  such  an  air  of  being  "  used  up."  You  envy  him 
thoroughly  the  extraordinary  capacity  that  he  has. 

Here  and  there  creeps  in,  amid  all  the  pride  and 
shame  of  the  new  life,  a  tender  thought  of  the  old 
home  ;  but  its  joys  are  joys  no  longer  :  its  highest  aspi- 
rations even  have  resolved  themselves  into  fine  mist,  — 
like  rainbows  that  the  sun  drinks  with  his  beams. 

The  affection  for  a  mother,  whose  kindness  you  recall 
with  a  suffused  eye,  is  not  gone,  or  blighted ;  but  it  is 
woven  up,  as  only  a  single  adorning  tissue,  into  the 
growing  pride  of  youth :  it  is  cherished  in  the  proud 


114  DREAM-LIFE. 

soul  rather  as  a  redeeming  weakness  than  as  a  vital 
energy. 

And  the  love  for  Nelly,  though  it  bates  no  jot  of  fer- 
vor, is  woven  into  the  scale  of  growing  purposes  rather 
as  a  color  to  adorn  than  as  a  strand  to  strengthen. 

As  for  your  other  loves,  those  romantic  ones  which 
were  kindled  by  bright  eyes,  and  the  stolen  reading  of 
Miss  Porter's  novels,  they  linger  on  your  mind  like  per- 
fumes ;  and  they  float  down  your  memory  —  with  the 
figure,  the  step,  the  last  words  of  those  young  girls  who 
raised  them  —  like  the  types  of  some  dimly  shadowed 
but  deeper  passion,  which  is  some  time  to  spur  your 
maturer  purposes  and  to  quicken  your  manly  resolves. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell,  for  you  do  not  as  yet  know, 
but  that  Madge  herself —  hoidenish,  blue-eyed  Madge 
—  is  to  be  the  very  one  who  will  gain  such  hold  upon 
your  riper  affections  as  she  has  held  already  over  your 
boyish  caprice.  It  is  a  part  of  the  pride  —  I  may  say 
rather  an  evidence  of  the  pride  —  which  youth  feels  in 
leaving  boyhood  behind  him,  to  talk  laughingly  and 
carelessly  of  those  attachments  which  made  his  young 
years  so  balmy  with  dreams. 


II. 

First  Amhition. 

I  BELIEVE  that  sooner  or  later  there  come  to  every 
man  dreams  of  ambition.  Tliey  may  be  covered 
with  the  sloth  of  habit,  or  with  the  pretence  of  humil- 
ity ;  they  may  come  only  in  dim,  shadowy  visions,  that 
feed  the  eye  like  the  glories  of  an  ocean  sunrise  ;  but 
you  may  be  sure  that  they  will  come  :  even  before  one 
is  aware,  the  bold,  adventurous  goddess,  v/hose  name 
is  Ambition,  and  whose  dower  is  Fame,  will  be  toying 
with  the  feeble  heart.  And  she  pushes  her  ventures 
with  a  bold  hand  ;  she  makes  timidity  strong,  and  weak- 
ness valiant. 

The  way  of  a  man's  heart  will  be  foreshadowed  by 
what  goodness  lies  in  him,  —  coming  from  above,  and 
from  around ;  —  but  a  way  foreshadowed  is  not  a  way 
made.  And  the  making  of  a  man's  way  comes  only 
from  that  quickening  of  resolve  which  we  call  Ambi- 
tion. It  is  the  spur  that  makes  man  struggle  with  Des- 
tiny :  it  is  Heaven's  own  incentive,  to  make  Purpose 
great,  and  Achievement  greater. 

It  would  be  strange  if  you,  in  that  cloister  life  of  a 


116  DREAM-LIFE. 

college,  did  not  sometimes  feel  a  dawning  of  new  resolves. 
They  grapjjle  you  indeed  oftener  than  you  dare  to  speak 
of  Here  you  dream  first  of  that  very  sweet,  but  very 
shadowy  success  called  Reputation. 

You  think  of  the  delight  and  astonishment  it  would 
give  your  mother  and  father,  and  most  of  all  little 
Nelly,  if  you  were  winning  such  honors  as  now  escape 
you.  You  measure  yoiu'  capacities  by  those  about  you, 
and  watch  their  habit  of  study ;  you  gaze  for  a  half- 
hour  together  upon  some  successful  man  who  has  won 
his  prizes,  and  wonder  by  what  secret  action  he  has 
done  it.  And  when  in  time  you  come  to  be  a  compet- 
itor yourself,  your  anxiety  is  immense. 

You  spend  hours  upon  hours  at  your  theme.  You 
write  and  rewrite  ;  and  when  it  is  at  length  complete 
and  out  of  your  hands,  you  are  harassed  by  a  thousand 
doubts.  At  times,  as  you  recall  your  hours  of  toil,  you 
question  if  so  much  has  been  spent  upon  any  other ; 
you  feel  almost  certain  of  success.  You  repeat  to  your- 
self some  passages  of  special  eloquence  at  night.  You 
fancy  the  admiration  of  the  professors  at  meeting  with 
such  a  wonderful  performance.  You  have  a  slight  fear 
that  its  superior  goodness  may  awaken  the  suspicion 
that  some  one  out  of  the  college  some  superior  man, 
may  have  written  it.     But  this  fear  dies  away. 

The  eventful  day  is  a  great  one  in  your  calendar ; 
you  hardly  sleep  the  night  previous.     You  tremble  as 


FIRST  AMBITION.  117 

the  chapel-bell  is  rung ;  you  profess  to  be  very  indif- 
ferent, as  the  reading  and  the  prayer  close ;  you  even 
stoop  to  take  up  your  hat,  as  if  you  had  entirely  over- 
looked the  fiict  that  the  old  President  was  in  the  desk 
for  the  express  purpose  of  declaring  the  successful 
names.  You  listen  dreamily  to  his  tremulous,  yet  fear- 
fully distinct  enunciation.     Your  head  swims  strangely. 

They  all  pass  out  \y\\h  a  harsh  murnuir  along  the 
aisles  and  through  the  doorways.  It  would  be  well  if 
there  were  no  disappointments  in  life  more  terrible 
than  this.  It  is  consoling  to  express  very  depreciating 
opinions  of  the  Faculty  in  general,  —  and  very  con- 
temptuous ones  of  that  particular  officer  who  decided 
upon  the  merit  of  the  prize-themes.  An  evening  or 
two  at  Dalton's  room  go  still  farther  toward  healing  the 
disappointment,  and  —  if  it  must  be  said  —  toward 
moderating  the  heat  of  your  ambition. 

You  grow  up  however,  unfortunately,  as  the  college 
years  fly  by,  into  a  very  exaggerated  sense  of  your  own 
capacities.  Even  the  good,  old,  white-haired  Squiie, 
for  whom  you  once  entertained  so  much  respect,  seems 
to  your  crazy,  classic  fancy  a  very  humdrum  sort  of 
personage.  Frank,  although  as  noble  a  fellow  as  ever 
sat  a  horse,  is  yet  —  you  cannot  help  thinking  —  very 
Ignorant  of  Euripides  ;  even  the  English  master  at  Dr. 
Bidlow's  school,  you  feel  sure,  would  balk  at  a  dozen 
problems  you  could  give  him. 


118  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  get  an  exalted  idea  of  that  uncertain  quality, 
which  turns  the  heads  of  a  vast  many  of  your  fellows, 
called  —  Genius.  An  odd  notion  seems  to  be  inherent 
in  the  atmosjihere  of  those  college  chambers,  that  there 
is  a  certain  faculty  of  mind  —  first  developed,  as  would 
seem,  in  colleges  —  which  accomplishes  whatever  it 
chooses  without  any  special  painstaking.  For  a  time 
you  fall  yourself  into  this  very  unfortunate  hallucina- 
tion ;  you  cultivate  it  after  the  usual  college  fashion,  by 
drinking  a  vast  deal  of  strong  coffee  and  Avhiskey-toddy, 
by  writing  a  little  poor  verse  in  the  Byronic  temper, 
and  by  studying  very  late  at  night  with  closed  blinds. 

It  costs  you  however  more  anxiety  and  hypocrisy 
than  you  could  possibly  have  believed. 

You  will  learn,  Clarence,  when  the  Autumn  has 

rounded  your  hopeful  Summer,  if  not  before,  that  there 
is  no  Genius  in  life  like  the  Genius  of  energy  and 
industry.  You  will  learn,  that  all  the  traditions  so  cur- 
rent among  very  young  men  that  certain  great  charac- 
ters have  wrought  their  greatness  by  an  inspiration,  as 
it  were,  grow  out  of  a  sad  mistake. 

And  you  will  further  find,  when  you  come  to  measure 
yourself  with  men,  that  there  are  no  rivals  so  formi- 
dable as  those  earnest,  determined  minds  which  reckon 
the  value  of  every  hour,  and  which  achieve  eminence 
by  persistent  application. 

Literary  ambition  may  inflame  you  at  certain  periods  ; 


FIRST  AMBITION.  119 

and  a  thought  of  some  great  names  will  flash  like  a 
spark  into  the  mine  of  your  purposes ;  you  dream  till 
midnight  over  books ;  you  set  up  shadows,  and  chase 
them  down,  —  other  shadows,  and  they  fly.  Dreaming 
will  never  catch  them.  Nothing  makes  the  "  scent  lie 
well  "  in  the  hunt  after  distinction,  but  labor. 

And  it  is  a  glorious  thing,  when  once  you  are  weary 
of  the  dissipation,  and  the  ennui  of  your  own  aimless 
thought,  to  take  up  some  glowing  page  of  an  earnest 
thinker,  and  read  —  deep  and  long,  until  you  feel  the 
metal  of  his  thought  tinkling  on  your  brain,  and  strik- 
ing out  from  your  flinty  lethargy  flashes  of  ideas  that 
give  the  mind  light  and  heat.  And  away  you  go  in  the 
chase  of  what  the  soul  within  is  creating  on  the  instant, 
and  you  wonder  at  the  fecundity  of  Avhat  seemed  so 
barren,  and  at  the  ripeness  of  w^hat  seemed  so  crude. 
The  glow  of  toil  wakes  you  to  the  consciousness  of 
your  real  capacities :  you  feel  sure  that  they  have  taken 
a  new  step  toward  final  development.  In  such  mood 
it  is  that  one  feels  grateful  to  the  musty  tomes,  which 
at  other  hours  stand  like  wonder  -  making  mummies 
with  no  warmth  and  no  vitality.  Now  they  grow  into 
the  affections  like  new-found  friends,  and  gain  a  hold 
upon  the  heart,  and  light'  a  fire  in  the  brain,  that  the 
years  and  the  mould  cannot  cover  nor  quench. 


ni. 

College  Romance. 

TN  following  the  mental  vagaries  of  youth,  I  must  not 
-*-  forget  the  curvetings  and  wiltings  of  the  heart. 

The  black-ej'ed  Jenny,  with  whom  a  correspondence 
at  red  heat  was  kept  up  for  several  weeks,  is  long 
before  this  entirely  out  of  your  regard,  —  not  so  much 
by  reason  of  the  six  months'  disparity  of  age,  as  from 
the  fact,  communicated  quite  confidentially  by  the  trav- 
elled Nat,  that  she  has  had  a  desperate  flirtation  with 
a  handsome  midshipman.  The  conclusion  is  natural 
that  she  is  an  inconstant,  cruel-hearted  creature,  with 
little  appreciation  of  real  worth  ;  and  furthermore,  that 
all  midshipmen  are  a  very  contemptible  —  not  to  say 
dangerous  —  set  of  men.  She  is  consigned  to  forge tful- 
ness  and  neglect ;  and  the  late  lover  has  long  ago  con- 
soled himself  by  reading  in  a  spirited  way  that  passage 
of  Childe  Harold  commencing,  — 

"  I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me." 

As  for  Madge,  the  memory  of  her  has  been  more 
wakeful,  but  less  violent.  To  say  nothing  of  occasional 
returns  to  the  old  homestead,  when  you  have  met  her, 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  121 

Nelly's  letters  not  unfreqiiently  drop  a  careless  half- 
sentence  that  keeps  her  strangely  in  mind. 

"  Madge,"  she  says,  "  is  sitting  by  me  with  her  work  ; " 
or,  "  You  ought  to  see  the  little  silk  purse  that  Madge 
is  knitting ; "  or,  —  speaking  of  some  country  rout,  — 
"  Madge  was  there  in  the  sweetest  dross  you  can  im- 
agine." All  this  will  keep  Madge  in  mind ;  not,  it  is 
true,  in  the  ambitious  moods,  or  in  the  frolics  with  Dal- 
ton ;  but  in  those  odd  half-hours  that  come  stealing 
over  one  at  twilight,  laden  with  sweet  memories  of  the 
days  of  old. 

A  new  romantic  admiration  is  started  by  those  pale 
lady-faces  which  light  up  on  a  Sunday  the  gallery  of 
the  college  chapel.  An  amiable  and  modest  fancy  gives 
to  them  all  a  sweet  classic  grace.  The  very  atmos- 
phere of  these  courts,  wakened  with  high  metaphysic 
discourse,  seems  to  lend  them  a  Greek  beauty  and 
fineness ;  and  you  attach  to  the  prettiest,  that  your 
eye  can  reach,  all  the  charms  of  some  Sciote  maiden, 
and  all  the  learning  of  her  father  —  the  professor. 
And  as  you  lie  half-wakeful  and  half-dreaming,  through 
the  long  Divisions  of  the  Doctor's  morning  discourse, 
the  twinkling  eyes  in  some  corner  of  the  gallery  bear 
you  pleasant  company  as  you  float  down  those  stream- 
ing visions  which  radiate  from  you  far  over  the  track 
of  the  coming  life. 

But  following  very  closely  upon  this  comes  a  whole 


122  DREAM-LIFE. 

volume  of  street  romance.  There  are  prettily  shaped 
figures  that  go  floating  at  convenient  hours  for  college 
observation  along  the  thoroughfares  of  the  town.  And 
these  figures  come  to  be  known,  and  the  dresses,  and 
the  streets ;  and  even  the  door-plate  is  studied.  The 
hours  are  ascertained,  by  careful  observation  and  induc- 
tion, at  which  some  particular  figure  is  to  be  met,  —  or 
is  to  be  seen  at  some  low  parlor-window,  in  white  sum- 
mer dress,  with  head  leaning  on  the  hand,  very  mel- 
ancholy, and  very  dangerous.  Perhaps  her  very  card 
is  stuck  proudly  into  a  corner  of  the  mirror  in  the  col- 
lege-chamber. After  this  may  come  moonlight  meet- 
ings at  the  gate,  or  long  listenings  to  the  jDlaintive 
lyrics  that  steal  out  of  the  parlor-windows,  and  that 
blur  wofully  the  text  of  the  Conic  Sections. 

Or  perhaps  she  is  under  the  fierce  eye  of  some  Cer- 
berus of  a  schoolmistress,  about  whose  grounds  you 
prowl  piteously,  searching  for  small  knot-holes  in  the 
surrounding  board  fence,  through  which  little  souvenirs 
of  impassioned  feeling  may  be  thrust.  Sonnets  are  writ- 
ten for  the  town  papers,  full  of  telling  phrases,  and  with 
classic  allusions  and  foot-notes  which  draw  attention  to 
some  similar  felicity  of  expression  in  Horace  or  Ovid. 
Correspondence  may  even  be  ventured  on,  enclosing 
locks  of  hair,  and  interchanging  rings,  and  paper  oaths 
of  eternal  fidelity. 

But  the  old  Cerberus  is  very  wakeful :  the  letters  fail; 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  123 

the  lamp  that  used  to  glimmer  for  a  sign  among  the 
sycamores  is  gone  out ;  a  stolen  wave  of  a  handkerchief, 
a  despairing  look,  and  tears,  —  which  you  fancy,  but  do 
not  see,  —  make  you  miserable  for  long  days.  - 

The  tyrant  teacher,  with  no  trace  of  compassion  in 
her  withered  heart,  reports  you  to  the  college  authori- 
ties. There  is  a  long  lecture  of  admonition  upon  the 
folly  of  such  dangerous  practices ;  and  if  the  offence  be 
aggravated  by  some  recent  joviality  with  Dalton  and 
the  Senior,  you  are  condemned  to  a  month  of  exile  with 
a  country  clergyman.  There  are  a  few  tearful  regrets 
over  the  painful  tone  of  the  home  letters  ;  but  the  brac- 
ing country  air,  and  the  pretty  faces  of  the  village  girls, 
heal  your  heart  —  with  fresh  wounds. 

The  old  Doctor  sees  dimly  through  his  spectacles  ; 
and  his  pew  gives  a  good  look-out  upon  the  smiling 
choir  of  singers.  A  collegian  wears  the  honors  of  a 
stranger,  and  the  country  bucks  stand  but  poor  chance 
in  contrast  with  your  wonderful  attainments  in  cravats 
and  verses.  But  this  fresh  dream,  odorous  with  its 
memories  of  sleigh-rides  or  lilac-blossoms,  slips  by,  and 
yields  again  to  the  more  ambitious  dreams  of  the 
cloister. 

In  the  prouder  moments  that  come  when  you  are 
more  a  man  and  less  a  boy, —  with  more  of  strategy  and 
less  of  faith,  —  your  thought  of  woman  runs  loftily ;  not 
loftily  in  the  realm  of  virtue  or  goodness,  but  loftily  on 


124  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  new  world-scale.  The  pride  of  intellect,  that  is 
thirsting  in  you,  fashions  ideal  graces  after  a  classic 
model.  The  heroines  of  fable  are  admired ;  and  the 
soul  is  tortured  with  that  intensity  of  passion  which 
gleams  through  the  broken  utterances  of  Grecian 
tragedy. 

In  the  vanity  of  self-consciousness  one  feels  at  a  long 
remove  above  the  ordinary  love  and  trustfulness  of  a 
simple  and  pure  heart.  You  turn  away  from  all  such 
with  a  sigh  of  conceit,  to  graze  on  that  lofty  but  bitter 
pasturage  where  no  daisies  grow.  Admiration  may  be 
called  up  by  some  graceful  figure  that  you  see  moving 
under  those  sweeping  elms ;  and  you  follow  it  with  an 
intensity  of  look  that  makes  you  blush,  and  straightway 
hide  the  memory  of  the  blush  by  summing  up  some 
artful  sophistry,  that  resolves  your  delighted  gaze  into  a 
weakness,  and  your  contempt  into  a  virtue. 

But  this  cannot  last.  As  the  years  drop  off,  a  certain 
pair  of  eyes  beam  one  day  upon  you  that  seem  to  have 
been  cut  out  of  a  page  of  Greek  poetry.  They  have 
all  its  sentiment,  its  fire,  its  intellectual  reaches:  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  what  they  have  not.  The  pro- 
file is  a  Greek  profile,  and  the  heavy  chestnut  hair  is 
plaited  in  Greek  bands.  The  figure,  too,  might  easily 
be  that  of  Helen,  or  of  Andromache. 

You  gaze,  ashamed  to  gaze  ;  and  your  heart  yearns, 
ashamed  of  its  yearning.     It  is  no  young  girl  who  is 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE.  125 

thus  testing  you  :  there  is  too  much  pride  for  that.  A 
ripeness  and  maturity  rest  upon  her  look  and  figure 
that  completely  fill  up  that  ideal  which  exaggerated 
fancies  have  wrought  out  of  the  Grecian  heaven.  The 
vision  steals  upon  you  at  all  hours,  —  now  rounding  its 
flowing  outline  to  the  mellifluous  metre  of  Epic  hex- 
ameter, and  again  with  its  bounding  life  pulsating  with 
the  glorious  dashes  of  tragic  verse. 

Yet  with  the  exception  of  stolen  glances  and  secret 
admiration,  you  keep  aloof  There  is  no  wish  to  fathom 
what  seems  a  happy  mystery.  There  lies  a  content  in 
secret  obeisance.  Sometimes  it  shames  you,  as  your 
mind  glows  with  its  fancied  dignity;  but  the  heart 
thrusts  in  its  voice  ;  and,  yielding  to  it,  you  dream 
dreams  like  fond  old  Boccaccio's  upon  the  olive-shaded 
slopes  of  Italy.  The  tongue  even  is  not  trusted  with 
the  thoughts  that  are  seething  within  :  they  begin  and 
end  in  the  voiceless  pulsations  of  your  nature. 

After  a  time  —  it  seems  a  long  time,  but  it  is  in  truth 
a  very  short  time  —  you  find  who  she  is  who  is  thus 
entrancing  you.  It  is  done  most  carelessly.  No  creat- 
ure could  imagine  that  you  felt  any  interest  in  the  ac- 
complished sister  —  of  your  friend  Dalton.  Yet  it  is 
even  she  who  has  thus  beguiled  you ;  and  she  is  at 
'east  some  ten  years  Dalton's  senior,  and  by  even  more 
years  —  your  own ! 

It  is   singular   enough,  but  it  is  true,  that  the  af- 


126  DREAM-LIFE. 

fections  of  that  transition  state  from  youtli  to  manliness 
run  toward  the  types  of  maturity.  The  mind  in  its 
reaches  toward  strength  and  completeness  creates  a 
heart  -  sympathy  —  which  in  its  turn  craves  fulness. 
There  is  a  vanity  too  about  the  first  steps  of  manly 
education,  which  is  disposed  to  underrate  the  innocence 
and  unripened  judgment  of  the  other  sex.  Men  see 
the  mistake  as  they  grow  older  ;  for  the  judgment  of  a 
woman,  in  all  matters  of  the  affections,  ripens  by  ten 
years  faster  than  a  man's. 

In  place  of  any  relentings  on  such  score  you  are  set 
on  fire  anew.  The  stories  of  her  accomplishments,  and 
of  her  grace  of  conversation,  absolutely  drive  you  mad. 
You  watch  your  occasion  for  meeting  her  upon  the 
street.  You  wonder  if  she  has  any  conception  of  your 
capacity  for  mental  labor,  and  if  she  has  any  adequate 
idea  of  your  admiration  for  Greek  poetry,  and  for  herself. 

You  tie  your  cravat  poet-wise,  and  wear  broad  collars 
turned  down,  wondering  how  such  disposition  may  af- 
fect her.  Her  figure  and  step  become  a  kind  of  mov- 
ing romance  to  you,  drifting  forward  and  outward  into 
that  great  land  of  dreams  which  you  call  the  world. 
When  you  see  her  walking  with  others,  you  pity  her, 
and  feel  perfectly  sure,  that,  if  she  had  only  a  hint  of 
that  intellectual  fervor  which  in  your  own  mind  blazes 
up  at  the  very  thought  of  her,  she  would  perfectly  scorn 
the  stout  gentleman  who  spends  his  force  in  tawdry 
compliments. 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE.  127 

A  visit  to  your  home  wakens  ardor  by  contrast  as 
much  as  by  absence.  Madge,  so  gentle,  and  now  steal- 
ing sly  looks  at  you  in  a  way  so  different  from  her  hoi- 
denish  manner  of  school-days,  you  regard  complacently 
as  a  most  lovable,  fond  girl,  —  the  very  one  for  some 
fond  and  amiable  young  man  whose  soul  is  not  filled,  as 
yours  is,  with  higher  things  !  To  Nelly,  earnestly  lis- 
tening, you  drop  only  exaggerated  hints  of  the  won- 
derful beauty  and  dignity  of  this  new  being  of  your 
fancy.     Of  her  age  you  scrupulously  say  nothing. 

The  trivialities  of  Dalton  amaze  you :  it  is  hard  to 
understand  how  a  man  within  the  limit  of  such  influ- 
ences as  Miss  Dalton  must  inevitably  exert,  can  tamely 
sit  down  to  a  rubber  of  whist,  and  cigars !  There  must 
be  a  sad  lack  of  congeniality ; —  it  woidd  certainly  be  a 
proud  thing  to  supply  that  lack  ! 

The  new  feeling,  wild  and  vague  as  it  is,  —  for  as  yet 
you  have  only  most  casual  acquaintance  with  Laura 
Dalton,  —  invests  the  whole  habit  of  your  study ;  not 
quickening  overmuch  the  relish  for  Dugald  Stewart,  or 
the  miserable  skeleton  of  college  Logic,  but  spending 
a  sweet  charm  upon  the  graces  of  Rhetoric  and  the 
music  of  Classic  Verse.  It  blends  harmoniously  with 
your  quickened  ambition.  There  is  some  last  appear- 
ance that  you  have  to  make  upon  the  college  stage,  in 
the  presence  of  the  great  worthies  of  the  State,  and  of 
all  the  beauties  of  the  town,  —  Laura  chiefest  among 


128  DREAM-LIFE. 

them.  In  view  of  it  you  feel  dismally  intellectual 
Prodigious  foculties  are  to  be  brought  to  the  task. 

You  think  of  throwing  out  ideas  that  will  quite  startle 
His  Excellency  the  Governor,  and  those  very  distin- 
guished public  characters  whom  the  college  purveyors 
vote  into  their  periodic  public  sittings.  You  are  quite 
sure  of  surprising  them,  and  of  deeply  provoking  such 
scheming,  shallow  politicians  as  have  never  read  "Way- 
land's  "  Treatise,"  and  who  venture  incautiously  within 
hearing  of  your  remarks.  You  fancy  yourself  in  ad- 
vance the  victim  of  a  long  leader  in  the  next  day's 
paper,  and  the  thoughtful  but  quiet  cause  of  a  great 
change  in  the  political  programme  of  the  State.  But 
crowning  and  eclipsing  all  the  triumph,  are  those  dark 
eyes  beaming  on  you  from  some  corner  of  the  church 
their  floods  of  unconscious  praise  and  tenderness. 

Your  father  and  Nelly  are  there  to  greet  you.  He 
has  spoken  a  few  calm,  quiet  words  of  encouragement, 
that  make  you  feel  —  very  wrongfully  —  that  he  is  a 
cold  man,  with  no  earnestness  of  feeling.  As  for  Nelly, 
she  clasps  your  arm  with  a  fondness,  and  with  a  pride, 
that  tell  at  every  step  her  praises  and  her  love. 

But  even  this,  true  and  healthful  as  it  is,  fades  before 
a  single  word  of  commendation  from  the  new  arbitress 
of  your  feeling.  You  have  seen  Miss  Dalton  !  You 
have  met  her  on  that  last  evening  of  your  cloistered 
fife  in  all  the  elegance  of  ball-costume ;  your  eye  has 


COLLEGE   ROMANCE.  129 

feasted  on  her  elegant  figure,  and  upon  her  eye 
sparkling  with  the  consciousness  of  beauty.  You  have 
talked  with  Miss  Dalton  about  Byron,  about  "Words- 
worth, about  Homer.  You  have  quoted  poetry  to  Miss 
Dalton  ;  you  have  clasped  Miss  Dalton's  hand  ! 

Her  conversation  delights  you  by  its  jDiquancy  and 
grace  ;  she  is  quite  ready  to  meet  you  (a  grave  matter 
of  surprise !)  upon  whatever  subject  you  may  suggest. 
You  lapse  easily  and  lovingly  into  the  current  of  her 
thought,  and  blush  to  find  yourself  vacantly  admiring 
when  she  is  looking  for  reply.  The  regard  you  feel  for 
her  resolves  itself  into  an  exquisite  mental  love,  vastly 
superior,  as  you  think,  to  any  other  kind  of  love. 
There  is  no  dream  of  marriage  as  yet,  but  only  of  sit- 
ting beside  her  in  the  moonliglit  during  a  countless 
succession  of  hours,  and  talking  of  poetry  and  nature, 
of  destiny  and  love. 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton  ! 

And   all  the   while  vaunting  youth    is    almost 

mindless  of  the  presence  of  that  fond  Nelly  whose 
warm  sisterly  affection  measures  itself  hopefully  against 
the  proud  associations  of  your  growing  years,  —  and 
whose  deep,  loving  eye,  half  suffused  with  its  native 
tenderness,  seems  longing  to  win  you  back  to  the  old 
joys  of  that  Home -love,  which  linger  on  the  distant 
horizon  of  your  boyhood  like  the  golden  glories  of  a 
sinking  day. 

6* 


130  DREAM-LIFE. 

As  the  night  wanes,  yon  wander  for  a  last  look  to- 
ward the  dingy  walls  that  have  made  for  you  so  long  a 
home.  The  old  broken  expectancies,  the  days  of  glee, 
the  triumphs,  the  rivalries,  the  defeats,  the  friendshiiDS, 
are  recalled  with  a  fluttering  of  the  heart  that  pride 
cannot  wholly  subdue.  You  step  upon  the  chapel- 
porch  in  the  quiet  of  the  night  as  you  would  step  on 
the  graves  of  friends.  You  pace  back  and  forth  in  the 
wan  moonlight,  dreaming  of  that  dim  life  which  opens 
wide  and  Ions;  from  the  morrow.  The  width  and  length 
oppress  you  :  they  crush  down  your  struggling  self-con- 
sciousness like  Titans  dealing  with  Pygmies.  A  single 
piercing  thought  of  the  vast  and  shadowy  future,  which 
is  so  near,  tears  off  on  the  instant  all  the  gewgaws  of 
pride,  strips  away  the  vanity  that  doubles  your  bigness, 
and  forces  you  down  to  the  bare  nakedness  of  what  you 
truly  are  ! 

With  one  more  yearning  look  at  the  gray  hulks  of 
building,  you  loiter  away  under  the  trees.  The  monster 
elms,  which  have  bowered  your  proud  steps  through 
four  years  of  proudest  life,  lift  up  to  the  night  their 
rounded  canopy  of  leaves  with  a  quiet  majesty  that 
mocks  you.  They  kiss  the  same  calm  sky  which  they 
wooed  four  years  ago  ;  and  they  droop  their  trailing 
limbs  lovingly  to  the  same  earth,  which  has  steadily 
and  quietly  wrought  in  them  their  stature  and  their 
strength.     Only  here  and  there  you  catch  the  loitering 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  131 

footfall  of  some  other  beniglited  dreamer,  strolling 
around  the  vast  quadrangle  of  level  green,  which  lies, 
like  a  prairie-child,  under  the  edging  shadows  of  the 
town.  The  lights  glimmer  one  by  one  ;  and  one  by 
one,  like  breaking  hopes,  they  fade  away  from  the 
houses.  The  full-risen  moon,  that  dapples  the  ground 
beneath  the  trees,  touches  the  tall  church-spires  with 
silver,  and  slants  their  loftiness  —  as  memory  slants 
grief — in  long,  dark,  tapering  lines  upon  the  silvered 
Green. 


IV. 

First  Look  at  the  World. 

/^UR  Clarence  is  now  fairly  afloat  upon  the  swift 
^^  tide  of  Youth.  The  thrall  of  teachers  is  ended, 
and  the  audacity  of  self-resolve  is  begun.  It  is  not  a 
little  odd,  that,  when  we  have  least  strength  to  combat 
the  world,  we  have  the  highest  confidence  in  our 
ability. 

Very  few  individuals  in  the  world  possess  that  happy 
consciousness  of  their  own  prowess  which  belongs  to 
the  newly-graduated  collegian.  He  has  most  abound- 
ing fkith  in  the  tricksy  panoply  that  he  has  wrought  out 
of  the  metal  of  his  Classics.  His  Mathematics,  he  has 
not  a  doubt,  will  solve  for  him  every  complexity  of  life's 
questions;  and  his  Logic  will  as  certainly  untie  all 
Gordian  knots,  whether  in  politics  or  ethics. 

He  has  no  idea  of  defeat ;  he  proposes  to  take  the 
world  by  storm  ;  he  half  wonders  that  quiet  people  are 
not  startled  by  his  presence.  He  brushes  with  an  air 
of  importance  about  the  halls  of  country  hotels ;  he 
wears  his  honor  at  the  public  tables ;  he  fancies  that 
the  inattentive  guests  can  have  little  idea  that  the  yoimg 


FIRST  LOOK  AT   THE    WORLD.         133 

gentleman,  who  so  recently  delighted  the  public  ear  with 
his  dissertation  on  the  "  General  Tendency  of  Opinion," 
is  actually  among  them,  and  quietly  eating  from  the 
same  dish  of  beef  and  of  pudding  ! 

Our  poor  Clarence  does  not  know  —  Heaven  forbid 
he  should !  —  that  he  is  but  little  wiser  now  than  when 
he  turned  his  back  upon  the  old  Academy,  with  its  gal- 
lipots and  broken  retorts ;  and  that  with  the  addition  of 
a  few  Greek  roots,  a  smattering  of  Latin,  and  some 
readiness  of  speech,  he  is  almost  as  weak  for  breasting 
the  strong  current  of  life  as  when  a  boy.  America  is 
but  a  poor  place  for  the  romantic  book-dreamer.  The 
demands  of  this  new.  Western  life  of  ours  are  practical 
and  earnest.  Prompt  action,  and  ready  tact,  are  the 
weapons  by  which  to  meet  it,  and  subdue  it.  The  edu- 
cation of  the  cloister  ofiers  at  best  only  a  sound  start- 
ing-point from  which  to  leap  into  the  tide. 

The  father  of  Clarence  is  a  cool,  matter-of-fact  man. 
He  has  little  sympathy  with  any  of  the  romantic  notions 
that  enthrall  a  youth  of  twenty.  He  has  a  very  humble 
opinion  —  much  humbler  than  you  think  he  should  have 
—  of  your  attainments  at  college.  He  advises  a  short 
period  of  travel,  that  by  observation  you  may  find  out 
more  fully  how  that  world  is  made  up  with  which  you 
are  henceforth  to  struggle. 

Your  mother  half  fears  your  alienation  from  the 
affections  of  home.     Her  letters  all  run  over  with  a 


134  DREAM-LIFE. 

tenderness  tliat  makes  you  sigh,  and  that  makes  you 
feel  a  deep  reproach.  You  may  not  have  been  wanting 
in  the  more  ordinary  tokens  of  affection  ;  you  have  made 
your  periodic  visits ;  but  you  bkish  for  the  consciousness 
that  fastens  on  you  of  neglect  at  heart.  You  blush  for 
the  lack  of  that  glow  of  feeling  which  once  fastened  to 
every  home-object. 

[Does  a  man  indeed  outgrow  affections  as  his  mind 
ripens  ?  Do  the  early  and  tender  sympathies  become 
a  part  of  his  intellectual  perceptions,  to  be  appreciated 
and  reasoned  upon  as  one  reasons  about  truths  of 
science  ?  Is  their  vitality  necessarily  young  ?  Is  there 
the  same  ripe,  joyous  burst  of  the  heart  at  the  recol- 
lection of  later  friendships,  which  belonged  to  those  of 
boyhood  ;  and  are  not  the  later  ones  more  the  sug- 
gestions of  judgment,  and  less  the  absolute  conditions 
of  the  heart's  health  ?] 

The  letters  of  your  mother,  as  I  said,  make  you  sigh : 
there  is  no  moment  in  our  lives  when  we  feel  less 
worthy  of  the  love  of  others,  and  less  worthy  of  our 
own  respect,  than  when  we  receive  evidences  of  kind- 
ness which  we  know  we  do  not  merit,  —  and  when  souls 
are  laid  bare  to  us,  and  we  have  too  much  indifference 
to  lay  bare  our  own  in  return. 

"  Clarence,"  —  writes  that  neglected  mother,  —  "you 
do  not  know  how  much  you  are  in  our  thoughts,  and 
how  often  you  are  the  burden  of  my  prayers.     Oh, 


FIRST  LOOK  AT   THE    WORLD.  135 

Clarence,  I  covild  almost  wish  that  you  were  still  a  boy, 
—  still  running  to  me  for  those  little  favors  which  I 
was  only  too  happy  to  bestow,  —  still  dependent  in 
some  degree  on  your  mother's  love  for  happiness. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  you  wrong,  Clarence,  but  it  does 
seem  from  the  changing  tone  of  your  letters,  that  you 
are  becoming  more  and  more  forgetful  of  us  all ; 
that  you  are  feeling  less  need  of  our  advice,  and  — 
what  I  feel  far  more  deeply  —  less  need  of  our  affec- 
tion. Do  not,  my  son,  forget  the  lessons  of  home. 
There  will  come  a  time,  I  feel  sure,  when  you  will  know 
that  those  lessons  are  good.  They  may  not  indeed  help 
you  in  that  intellectual  strife  which  soon  will  engross 
you ;  and  iLey  may  not  have  fitted  you  to  shine  in  what 
are  called  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  world,  but  they 
are  such,  Clarence,  as  make  the  heart  pure  and  honest 
and  strong ! 

"You  may  think  me  weak  to  write  you  thus,  as  I 
would  have  written  to  my  light-hearted  boy  years  ago  ; 
indeed  I  am  not  strong,  but  growing  every  day  more 
feeble. 

"Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  is  sitting  by  me.  'Tell 
Clarence,'  she  says,  '  to  come  home  soon.'  You  know, 
my  son,  what  hearty  welcome  will  greet  you  ;  and  that, 
whether  here  or  away,  our  love  and  prayers  will  be 
with  you  always  ;  and  may  God  in  his  infinite  mercy 
keep  you  from  all  harm  !  " 


136  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  tear  or  two  —  brushed  away  as  soon  as  they  come 
—  is  all  that  youth  gives  to  embalm  such  treasure  of 
love  !  A  gay  laugh,  or  the  challenge  of  some  com- 
panion of  a  day,  will  sweep  away  into  the  night  the 
earnest,  regretful,  yet  happy  dreams  that  rise  like  in- 
cense from  the  pages  of  such  hallowed  aflfection. 

The  brusque  world  too  is  to  be  met,  with  all  its 
hurry  and  promptitude.  Manhood,  in  our  swift  Ameri- 
can world,  is  measured  too  much  by  forgetfulness  of  all 
the  sweet  bonds  which  tie  the  heart  to  the  home  of  its 
first  attachments.  We  deaden  the  glow  that  nature  has 
kindled,  lest  it  may  lighten  our  hearts  into  an  enchant- 
ing flame  of  weakness.  We  have  not  learned  to  make 
that  flame  the  beacon  of  our  purposes  and  the  warmer 
of  oiu-  strength.     We  are  men  toe  early. 

But  an  experience  is  approaching  Clarence,  that 
will  drive  his  heart  home  for  shelter,  like  a  wounded 
bird! 

It   is  an   autumn  morning,  ^nth  such  crimson 

glories  to  kindle  it  as  lie  along  the  twin  ranges  of 
mountain  that  guard  the  Hudson.  The  white  frosts 
shine  like  changing  silk  in  the  fields  of  late-growing 
clover ;  the  river-mists  curl,  and  idle  along  the  bosom 
of  the  water,  and  creep  up  the  hillsides,  and  at  noon 
float  their  feathery  vapors  aloft  in  clouds  ;  the  crimson 
trees  blaze  in  the  side  valleys,  and  blend  their  vermilion 
tints   under  the   fairy  hands  of  our  American   frost- 


FIRST  LOOK   AT   THE    WORLD.  137 

painters  with  tlie  dark  blood  of  tlie  ash-trees  and  the 
orange-tinted  oaks.  Blue  and  bright  under  the  clear 
Fall  heaven,  the  broad  river  shines  before  the  surging 
prow  of  the  boat  like  a  shield  of  steel. 

The  bracing  air  lights  up  rich  dreams  of  life.  Your 
fancy  peoples  the  valleys  and  the  hill-tops  with  its  cre- 
ations ;  and  your  hope  lends  some  crowning  beauty  of 
the  landscape  to  your  dreamy  future.  The  vision  of 
yoiu-  last  college  year  is  not  gone.  That  figure,  whose 
elegance  your  eyes  then  feasted  on,  still  floats  before 
you  ;  and  the  memory  of  the  last  talk  with  Laura  is  as 
vivid  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday  that  you  listened.  In- 
deed this  opening  campaign  of  travel  —  although  you 
are  half  ashamed  to  confess  it  to  yourself — is  guided 
by  the  thought  of  her. 

Dalton  with  a  party  of  friends,  his  sister  among 
them,  is  journeying  to  the  north.  A  hope  of  meeting 
them  —  scarce  acknowledged  as  an  intention  —  spurs 
you  on.  The  eye  rests  dreamily  and  vaguely  on  the 
beauties  that  appear  at  every  turn :  they  are  beauties  that 
charm  you,  and  charm  you  the  more  by  an  indefinable 
association  with  that  fairy  object  that  floats  before  you, 
half  unknown,  and  wholly  unclaimed.  The  quiet  towns 
with  their  noonday  stillness,  the  outlying  mansions 
with  their  stately  splendor,  the  bustling  cities  with  their 
mocking  din,  and  the  long  reaches  of  silent  and  wooded 
shore,  chime  with  their  several  beauties  to  your  heart, 


138  DREAM-LIFE. 

in  keeping  with  the  master-key  that  was  touched  long 
weeks  before. 

The  cool,  honest  advices  of  the  father  drift  across 
your  memory  in  shadowy  forms,  as  you  wander  through 
the  streets  of  the  first  northern  cities ;  and  all  the  need 
for  observation,  and  the  incentives  to  purpose,  which 
your  ambitious  designs  would  once  have  quickened,  fade 
dismally  when  you  find  that  she  is  not  there.  All  the 
lax  gayety  of  Saratoga  palls  on  the  appetite  ;  even  the 
magnificent  shores  of  Lake  George,  though  stirring 
your  spirit  to  an  insensible  wonder  and  love,  do  not 
cheat  you  into  a  trance  that  lingers.  In  vain  the  sun 
blazons  every  isle,  and  lights  every  shaded  cove,  and  at 
evening  stretches  the  Black  Mountain  in  giant  slumber 
on  the  waters. 

Your  thought  bounds  away  from  the  beauty  of  sky 
and  lake,  and  fastens  upon  the  ideal  which  your  dreamy 
humors  cherish.  The  very  glow  of  pursuit  heightens 
your  fervor,  —  a  fervor  that  dims  sadly  the  new-wak- 
ened memories  of  home.  The  southern  gates  of  Cham- 
plain,  those  fir-draped  Trosachs  of  America,  are  passed, 
and  you  find  yourself,  upon  a  golden  evening  of  Cana- 
dian autumn,  in  the  quaint  old  city  of  Montreal. 

Dalton  with  his  party  has  gone  down  to  Quebec.  He 
is  to  return  within  a  few  days  on  his  way  to  Niagara. 
There  is  a  letter  from  Nelly  awaiting  you.  It  says :  — 
''  Mother  is  much  more  feeble :  she  often  speaks  of  your 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE    WORLD.  139 

return  in  a  way  that  I  am  sure,  if  you  heard,  Clarence, 
would  bring  you  back  to  us  soon." 

There  is  a  struggle  in  your  mind:  old  affection  is 
weaker  than  young  pride  and  hope.  Moreover,  the 
world  is  to  be  faced ;  the  new  scenes  around  you  are  to 
be  studied.  An  answer  is  penned  full  of  kind  remem- 
brances, and  begging  a  few  days  of  delay.  You  wander, 
wondering,  under  the  quaint  old  houses,  and  wishing 
for  the  return  of  Dalton. 

He  meets  you  with  that  happy,  careless  way  of  his,  — 
the  dangerous  way  which  some  men  are  born  to,  and 
which  chimes  easily  to  every  tone  of  the  world,  —  a  way 
you  wondered  at  once  ;  a  way  you  admire  now ;  and  a 
way  that  you  will  distrust  as  you  come  to  see  more  of 
men.  Miss  Dalton  —  (it  seems  sacrilege  to  call  her 
Laura)  —  is  the  same  elegant  being  that  entranced 
you  first. 

They  urge  you  to  join  their  party.  But  there  is  no 
need  of  urging :  those  eyes,  that  figin-e,  the  whole  pres- 
ence indeed  of  Miss  Dalton,  attract  you  with  a  power 
which  you  can  neither  explain  nor  resist.  One  look  of 
grace  enslaves  you  ;  and  there  is  a  strange  pride  in  the 
enslavement. 

Is  it  dream,  or  is   it  earnest,  —  those  moonlit 

walks  upon  the  hills  that  skirt  the  city,  when  you  watch 
the  stars,  listening  to  her  voice,  and  feel  the  pressure 
of  that  jewelled  hand  upon  your  arm  ?  —  when  you  drain 


140  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  memory  of  its  whole  stock  of  poetic  beauties  to 
lavish  upon  her  ear  ?  Is  it  love,  or  is  it  madness,  when 
you  catch  her  eye  as  it  beams  more  of  eloquence  than 
lies  in  all  your  moonlight  poetry,  and  feel  an  exultant 
gush  of  the  heart  that  makes  you  proud  as  a  man,  and 
yet  timid  as  a  boy,  beside  her  ? 

Has  Dalton,  with  that  calm,  placid,  nonchalant  look 
of  his,  any  inkling  of  the  raptures  which  his  elegant 
sister  is  exciting  ?  Has  the  stout,  elderly  gentleman, 
who  is  so  prodigal  of  his  bouquets  and  attentions,  any 
idea  of  the  formidable  rival  that  he  has  found  ?  Has 
Laura  herself — you  dream  —  any  conception  of  that 
intensity  of  admiration  with  which  you  worship  ? 

Poor  Clarence !  it  is  his  first  look  at  Life  ! 

The  Thousand  Isles  with  their  leafy  beauties  lie 
around  your  passing  boat,  like  the  joys  that  skirt  us, 
and  pass  us,  on  our  way  through  life.  The  Thousand 
Isles  rise  sudden  before  you,  and  fringe  your  yeasty 
track,  and  drop  away  into  floating  spectres  of  beauty, 
of  haze,  of  distance,  like  those  dreams  of  joy  that  your 
passion  lends  the  brain.  The  low  banks  of  Ontario 
look  sullen  by  night;  and  the  moon,  rising  tranquilly 
over  the  tops  of  vast  forests  that  stand  in  majestic 
ranks  over  ten  thousand  acres  of  shore-land,  drips  its 
silvery  sparkles  along  the  rocking  waters,  and  flashes 
across  your  foamy  wake. 

With  such  attendance,  that  subdues  for  the  time  the 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE    WORLD.  141 

dreamy  forays  of  your  passion,  you  draw  toward  the 
sound  of  Niagara ;  and  its  distant,  vague  roar,  coming 
through  great  aisles  of  gloomy  forest,  bears  up  your 
spirit,  like  a  child's,  into  the  Highest  Presence. 

The  morning  after,  you  are  standing  with  your  party 
upon  the  steps  of  the  hotel.  A  letter  is  handed  to  you. 
Dalton  remarks  in  a  quizzical  way,  that  "  it  shows  a 
lady's  hand." 

"  Aha,  a  lady ! "  says  Miss  Dalton,  —  and  so  gayly  ! 

"  A  sister,"  I  say  ;  for  it  is  Nelly's  hand. 

"  By  the  by,  Clarence,"  says  Dalton,  "  it  was  a  very 
pretty  sister  you  gave  us  a  glimpse  of  at  Commence 
ment." 

"  Ah,  you  think  so  ; "  and  there  is  something  in  your 
tone  that  shows  a  little  indignation  at  this  careless  men- 
tion of  your  fond  Nelly ;  and  from  those  lips !  It  will 
occur  to  you  again. 

A  single  glance  at  the  letter  blanches  your  cheek. 
Your  heart  throbs  —  throbs  harder  —  throbs  tumultu- 
ously.  You  bite  your  lip,  for  there  are  lookers-on. 
But  it  will  not  do.  You  hurry  away ;  you  find  your 
chamber ;  you  close  and  lock  the  door,  and  burst  into 
a  flood  of  tears. 


V. 

A  Broken  Home. 

TT  is  Nelly's  own  fair  hand,  yet  sadly  blotted,  — 
■*-  blotted  with  her  tears,  and  blotted  with  yours. 

"  It  is  all  over,  dear,  dear  Clarence !    Oh,  how  I 

wish  you  were  here  to  mourn  with  us !  I  can  hardly 
now  believe  that  our  f)oor  mother  is  indeed  dead." 

Dead !  —  It  is  a  terrible  word !     You  repeat  it 

with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief.  The  letter  is  crumpled  in 
your  hand.     Unfold  it  again,  sobbing,  and  read  on. 

"  For  a  week  she  had  been  failing  every  day ;  but 
on  Saturday  we  thought  her  very  much  better.  I  told 
her  I  felt  sure  she  would  live  to  see  you  again. 

" '  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  Nelly,'  said  she, 
bursting  into  tears." 

Ah,  Clarence,  where  is  your  youthful  pride,  and 

your  strength  now  ?  —  with  only  that  frail  paper  to  annoy 
you,  crushed  in  your  grasp  ! 

"  She  sent  for  father,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers, 
told  him  she  was  dying.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  see 
his  grief.  I  was  kneeling  beside  her,  and  she  put  her 
hand  upon  my  head,  and  let  it  rest  there  for  a  moment, 
while  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  praying. 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  143 

"'Kiss  me,  Nelly,'  said  she,  growing  fainter:  kiss 
me  again  for  Clarence.' 

"  A  little  while  after  she  died." 

For  a  long  time  you  remain  with  only  that  letter, 
and  your  thought,  for  company.  You  pace  up  and 
down  your  chamber  :  again  you  seat  yourself,  and  lean 
your  head  upon  the  table,  enfeebled  by  the  very  grief 
that  you  cherish  still.  The  whole  day  passes  thus :  you 
excuse  yourself  from  all  companionship :  you  have  not 
the  heart  to  tell  the  story  of  your  troubles  to  Dalton,  — 
least  of  all,  to  Miss  Dalton.  How  is  this  ?  Is  sorrow 
too  selfish,  or  too  holy  ? 

Toward  nightfkll  there  is  a  calmer  and  stronger 
feeling.  The  voice  of  the  present  world  comes  to  your 
ear  again.  But  you  move  away  from  it  unobserved  to 
that  stronger  voice  of  God  in  the  Cataract.  Great 
masses  of  angry  cloud  hang  over  the  west ;  but  be- 
neath them  the  red  harvest  sun  shines  over  the  long 
reach  of  Canadian  shore,  and  bathes  the  whirling  rapids 
in  splendor.  You  stroll  alone  over  the  quaking  bridge, 
and  under  the  giant  trees  of  the  Island,  to  the  edge  of 
the  British  Fall.  You  go  out  to  the  little  shattered 
tower,  and  gaze  down,  with  sensations  that  will  last  till 
death,  upon  the  deep  emerald  of  those  awful  masses  of 
water. 

It  is  not  the  place  for  a  bad  man  to  ponder ;  it  is 
not  the  atmosphere  for  foul  thoughts,  or  weak  ones. 


I 


144  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  man  is  never  better  than  when  he  has  the  humblest 
sense  of  himself:  he  is  never  so  unlike  the  spirit  of 
Evil  as  when  his  pride  is  utterly  vanished.  You  linger, 
looking  upon  the  stream  of  fading  sunlight  that  plays 
across  the  rapids,  and  down  into  the  shadow  of  the 
depths  below,  lit  up  with  their  clouds  of  spray ;  — 
yet  farther  down,  your  sight  swims  upon  the  black 
eddying  masses,  with  white  ribbons  streaming  across 
their  glassy  surface ;  and  your  dizzy  eye  fastens  upon 
the  frail  cockle-shells  —  their  stout  oarsmen  dwindled 
to  Pyg^iies  —  that  dance  like  atoms  upon  the  vast 
chasm,  or  like  your  own  weak  resolves  upon  the  whirl 
of  Time. 

Your  thought,  growing  broad  in  the  \iew,  seems  to 
cover  the  whole  area  of  life :  you  set  up  your  aifections 
and  your  duties  ;  you  build  hopes  with  fairy  scenery, 
and  away  they  all  go,  tossing  like  the  relentless  watenj 
to  the  deep  gulf  that  gapes  a  hideous  welcome !  You 
sigh  at  your  weakness  of  heart,  or  of  endeavor,  and 
your  sighs  float  out  into  the  breeze,  that  rises  ever  from 
the  shock  of  the  waves,  and  whirl,  empty-handed,  to 
Heaven.  You  avow  high  purposes,  and  clench  them 
with  round  utterance  ;  and  your  voice,  like  a  sparrow's, 
is  caught  ujD  in  the  roar  of  the  fall,  and  thrown  at  you 
from  the  cliffs,  and  dies  away  in  the  solemn  thunders 
of  nature.  Great  thoughts  of  life  come  over  you  —  of 
its  work  and  destiny  —  of  its  affections  and  duties,  and 


A   BROKEN  HOME.  145 

roll  down  swift  —  like  the  river  —  into  the  deep  whirl 
of  doubt  and  danger.  Other  thoughts,  grander  and 
stronger,  like  the  continuing  rush  of  waters,  come  over 
you,  and  knit  your  purposes  together  with  their  weight, 
and  crush  you  to  exultant  tears,  and  then  leap,  shat- 
tered and  broken,  from  the  very  edge  of  your  intent 
into  mists  of  fear ! 

The  moon  comes  out,  and  gleaming  through  the 
clouds,  braids  its  light  fantastic  bow  upon  the  waters. 
You  feel  calmer  as  the  night  deepens.  The  darkness 
softens  you ;  it  hangs  —  like  the  pall  that  shrouds 
your  mother's  corpse  —  low  and  heavily  to  your  heart. 
It  helps  your  inward  grief  with  some  outward  show. 
It  makes  the  earth  a  mourner ;  it  makes  the  flash- 
ing water  -  drops  so  many  attendant  mourners.  It 
makes  the  Great  Fall  itself  a  mourner,  and  its  roar 
a  requiem! 

The  pleasure  of  travel  is  cut  short.  To  one  person 
of  the  little  company  of  fellow-voyagers  you  bid  adieu 
with  regret;  pride,  love,  and  hope  point  toward  her, 
while  all  the  gentler  affections  stray  back  to  the  broken 
home.  Her  smile  of  parting  is  very  gracious,  but  it  is 
not,  after  all,  such  a  smile  as  your  warm  heart  pines 
for. 

Ten  days  after,  you  are  walking  towaM  the  old  home- 
stead with  such  feelings  as  it  never  called  up  before. 
In  the  days  of  boyhood  there  were  triumphant  thoughts 


146  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  the  gladness  and  the  pride  with  which,  when  grown 
to  the  stature  of  manhood,  you  would  come  back  to 
that  little  town  of  your  birth.  As  you  have  bent  with 
your  dreamy  resolutions  over  the  tasks  of  the  cloister 
life,  swift  thoughts  have  flocked  on  you  of  the  proud 
step,  and  prouder  heart,  with  which  you  would  one 
day  greet  the  old  acquaintances  of  boyhood ;  and  you 
have  regaled  yourself  on  the  jaunty  manner  with  which 
you  would  meet  old  Dr.  Bidlow,  and  the  patronizing 
air  with  which  you  would  address  the  pretty,  blue-eyed 
Madge. 

It  is  late  afternoon  when  you  come  in  sight  of  the 
tall  sycamores  that  shade  your  home  ;  you  shudder  now, 
lest  you  may  meet  any  whom  you  once  knew.  The 
first  keen  grief  of  youth  seeks  little  of  the  sympathy  of 
companions  :  it  lies  —  with  a  sensitive  man  —  bounded 
within  the  narrowest  circles  of  the  heart.  They  only 
who  hold  the  key  to  its  innermost  recesses  can  speak 
consolation.  Years  will  make  a  change  ;  —  as  the  Sum- 
mer grows  in  fierce  heats,  the  balminess  of  the  violet 
banks  of  Spring  is  lost  in  the  odors  of  a  thousand  flow- 
ers ;  —  the  heart,  as  it  gains  in  age,  loses  freshness,  but 
wins  breadth. 

Throw  a  pebble  into   the  brook  at  its  source, 

and  the  agitation  is  terrible,  and  the  ripples  chafe 
madly  their  narrowed  banks ;  —  throw  in  a  pebble 
when  the  brook  has  become  a  river,  and  you  see  a  few 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  147 

circles,  widening  and  widening  and  widening,  until 
they  are  lost  in  the  gentle  every-day  murmur  of  its 
life! 

You  draw  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  as  you  walk 
toward  the  familiar  door :  the  yard  is  silent ;  the  night 
is  falling  gloomily;  a  few  katydids  are  crying  in  the 
trees.  The  mother's  window,  where  at  such  a  season 
as  this  it  was  her  custom  to  sit  watching  your  play,  is 
shut,  and  the  blinds  are  closed  over  it.  The  honey- 
suckle, which  grew  over  the  window,  and  which  she 
loved  so  much,  has  flung  out  its  branches  carelessly ; 
and  the  spiders  have  hung  their  foul  nets  upon  its 
tendrils. 

And  she,  who  made  that  home  so  dear  to  your  boy- 
hood, so  real  to  your  after-years,  —  standing  amid  all 
the  flights  of  your  youthful  ambition,  and  your  paltry 
cares  (for  they  seem  paltry  now),  and  your  doubts,  and 
anxieties  and  weaknesses  of  heart,  like  the  light  of 
your  hope  —  burning  ever  there  under  the  shadow  of 
the  sycamores,  —  a  holy  beacon,  by  whose  guidance 
you  always  came  to  a  sweet  haven,  and  to  a  refuge 
from  all  your  toils,  —  is  gone,  gone  forever  ! 

The  father  is  there  indeed,  —  beloved,  respected, 
esteemed  ;  but  the  boyish  heart,  whose  old  life  is  now 
reviving,  leans  more  readily  and  more  kindly  into  that 
void  where  once  beat  the  heart  of  a  mother. 

Nelly  is  there,  —  cherished  now  with  all  the  added 


148  DREAM-LIFE. 

love  that  is  stricken  off  from  her  who  has  left  you  for- 
ever.    Nelly  meets  you  at  the  door. 

"  Clarence  !  " 

"  Nelly  !  " 

There  are  no  other  words  ;  but  you  feel  her  tears  as 
the  kiss  of  welcome  is  given.  With  your  hand  joined 
in  hers,  you  walk  down  the  hall  into  the  old,  familiar 
room,  —  not  with  the  jaunty  college  step,  —  not  with 
any  presumption  on  your  dawning  manhood, —  oh,  no, — 
nothing  of  this ! 

Quietly,  meekly,  feeling  your  whole  heart  shattered, 
and  your  mind  feeble  as  a  boy's,  and  your  purposes 
nothing,  and  worse  than  nothing,  — with  only  one  proud 
feeling  you  fling  your  arm  around  the  form  of  that 
gentle  sister,  —  the  pride  of  a  protector,  —  the  feeling 
—  "  /will  care  for  you  now,  dear  Nelly  !  "  —  that  is  all. 
And  even  that,  proud  as  it  is,  brings  weakness. 

You  sit  down  together  upon  the  lounge  ;  Nelly  buries 
her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 

"  Dear  Nelly  ! "  and  your  arm  clasps  her  more  fondly. 

There  is  a  cricket  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  chirping 
very  loudly.  It  seems  as  if  nothing  else  were  living, — 
only  Nelly,  Clarence,  and  the  noisy  cricket.  Your  eye 
falls  on  the  chair  where  she  used  to  sit ;  it  is  drawn  up 
with  the  same  care  as  ever  beside  the  fire. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Clarence,"  says  Nelly, 
recovering  herself ;  and  there  is  a  sweet,  sad  smile  now. 


A   BROKEN  HOME.  149 

And  sitting  there  beside  you,  she  tells  you  of  it  all,  — 
of  the  day,  and  of  the  hour,  —  and  how  she  looked,  — 
and  of  her  last  prayer,  and  how  happy  she  was. 
"  And  did  she  leave  no  message  for  me,  Nelly  ?  " 
"  Not  to  forget  us,  Clarence ;  but  you  could  not !  " 
"  Thank  you,  Nelly.     And  was  there  nothing  else  ?  " 
"  Yes,  Clarence,  —  to  meet  her  one  day  ! " 
You  only  press  her  hand. 

Presently  your  father  comes  in :  he  greets  you  with 
far  more  than  his  usual  cordiality.  He  keeps  your  hand 
a  long  time,  looking  quietly  in  your  face,  as  if  he  were 
reading  traces  of  some  resemblance  that  had  never 
struck  him  before. 

The  father  is  one  of  those  calm,  impassive  men,  who 
shows  little  upon  the  surface,  and  whose  feelings  you 
have  always  thought  cold.  But  now  there  is  a  tremu- 
lousness  in  his  tones  that  you  never  remember  observ- 
ing before.  He  seems  conscious  of  it  himself,  and 
forbears  talking.  He  goes  to  his  old  seat,  and  after 
gazing  at  you  a  little  while  with  the  same  steadfastness 
as  at  first,  leans  forward,  and  buries  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

From  that  very  moment  you  feel  a  sympathy  and  a 
love  for  him,  that  you  have  never  known  until  then. 
And  in  after-years,  when  suffering  or  trial  come  over 
you,  and  when  your  thoughts  fly  as  to  a  refuge  to  that 
shattered  home,  you  will  recall  that  stooping  image  of 


150  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  father,  —  with  his  head  bowed,  and  from  time  to 
time  trembling  convulsively  with  grief,  —  and  feel  that 
there  remains  yet  by  the  household  fires  a  heart  of 
kindred  love  and  of  kindred  sorrow  ! 

Nelly  steals  away  from  you  gently,  and  stepping 
across  the  room,  lays  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  with 
a  touch  that  says,  as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  — 
"  We  are  here,  father  ! " 

And  he  rouses  himself,  —  passes  his  arm  around  her, 
—  looks  in  her  face  fondly,  —  draws  her  to  him,  and 
prints  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"Nelly,  we  must  love  each  other  now  more  than 
ever." 

Nelly's  lips  tremble,  but  she  cannot  answer ;  a  tear  or 
two  go  stealing  down  her  cheek. 

You  approach  them ;  and  your  father  takes  your 
hand  again  with  a  firm  grasp,  —  looks  at  you  thought- 
fully, —  drops  his  eyes  upon  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment 
there  is  a  pause  ;  — "  We  are  quite  alone  now,  my 
boy!" 

It  is  a  Broken  Home  ! 


VI. 

Family  Confidence. 

GRIEF  has  a  strange  power  in  opening  the  hearts 
of  those  who  sorrow  in  common.  The  father,  who 
has  seemed  to  you,  not  so  much  neglectful,  as  careless 
of  your  aims  and  purposes,  —  toward  w'hom  there  have 
been  in  your  younger  years  yearnings  of  affection  which 
his  chilliness  of  manner  has  seemed  to  repress,  now 
grows  under  the  sad  light  of  the  broken  household  into 
a  friend.  The  heart  feels  a  joy  it  cannot  express,  in  its 
freedom  to  love  and  to  cherish.  There  is  a  pleasure 
wholly  new  to  you  in  telling  him  of  your  youthful 
projects,  in  listening  to  his  questionings,  in  seeking 
his  opinions,  and  in  yielding  to  his  judgment. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  for  the  child,  and  quite  as  sad  for 
the  parent,  when  this  confidence  is  unknown.  Many 
and  many  a  time  with  a  bursting  heart  you  have  longed 
to  tell  him  of  some  boyish  grief,  or  to  ask  his  guidance 
out  of  some  boyish  trouble ;  but  at  the  first  sight  of 
that  calm,  inflexible  face,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
measured  words,  your  enthusiastic  yearnings  toward 
his  love  and  his  counsels  have  all  turned  back   upon 


152  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  eager  and  sorrowing  heart,  and  you  have  gone 
away  to  hide  in  secret  the  tears  which  the  lack  of  his 
sympathy  has  wrung  from  your  soul. 

But  now  over  the  tomb  of  her,  for  whom  you  weep 
in  common,  there  is  a  new  light  breaking ;  and  your 
only  fear  is  lest  you  weary  him  with  what  may  seem  a 
barren  show  of  your  confidence. 

Nelly  too  is  nearer  now  than  ever ;  and  with  her  you 
have  no  fears  of  your  extravagance  ;  you  listen  delight- 
fully there  by  the  evening  flame  to  all  that  she  tells  you 
of  the  neighbors  of  your  boyhood.  You  shudder  some- 
what at  her  genial  praises  of  the  blue-eyed  Madge, — 
a  shudder  that  you  can  hardly  account  for,  and  which 
you  do  not  seek  to  explain.  It  may  be  that  there  is  a 
clinging  and  tender  memory  yet  —  wakened  by  the 
home  atmosphere  —  of  the  divided  sixpence. 

Of  your  quondam  friend,  Frank,  the  pleasant  recol- 
lection of  whom  revives  again  under  the  old  roof-tree, 
she  tells  you  very  little,  —  and  that  little  in  a  hesitating 
and  indifferent  way  that  utterly  surprises  you.  Can  it 
be,  you  think,  that  there  has  been  some  cause  of  un- 
kindness  ? 

Clarence  is  still  very  young ! 

The  fire  glows  warmly  upon  the  accustomed  hearth- 
stone, and  —  save  that  vacant  place  never  to  be  filled 
again  —  a  home  cheer  reigns  even  in  this  time  of  your 
mourning.      The  spirit  of  the   lost  parent  seems   to 


FAMILY   CONFIDENCE.  loB 

linger  over  the  remnant  of  the  household  ;  and  the  Bible 
upon  its  stand  —  the  book  she  loved  so  well  —  the 
book  so  sadly  forgotten  —  seems  still  to  open  on  you 
its  promises  in  her  sweet  tones,  and  to  call  you,  as  it 
were,  with  her  angel-voice  to  the  land  that  she  in- 
herits. 

And  when  late  night  has  come,  and  the  household 
is  quiet,  you  call  up  in  the  darkness  of  your  chamber 
that  other  night  of  grief  v/hich  follov/ed  upon  the  death 
of  Charlie.  That  was  the  boy's  vision  of  death ;  and 
this  is  the  youthful  vision.  Yet  essentially  there  is  but 
little  difference.  Death  levels  the  capacities  of  the 
living  as  it  levels  the  strength  of  its  victims.  It  is  as 
grand  to  the  man  as  to  the  boy ,  its  teachings  are  as 
deep  for  age  as  for  infancy. 

You  may  learn  its  manner,  and  estimate  its  ap- 
proaches ;  but  vvhen  it  comes,  it  comes  always  with  the 
same  awful  front  that  it  wore  to  your  boyhood.  Rea- 
son and  Revelation  may  point  to  rich  issues  that  xmfold 
from  its  very  darkness ;  yet  all  these  are  no  more  to 
your  bodily  sense,  and  no  more  to  your  enlightened 
hope,  than  those  foreshadowings  of  peace  which  rest 
like  a  halo  on  the  spirit  of  the  child  as  he  prays  in 
guileless  tones  —  Our  Fatiikr,  who  art  in  Heaven  ! 

It  is  a  holy  and  a  placid  grief  that  comes  over  you, 
—  not  crushing,  but  bringing  to  life  from  the  grave  of 
boyhood  all  its  better  and  nobler  instincts.     In  their 


154  DREAM-LIFE. 

light  your  wild  plans  of  youth  look  sadly  misshapen ; 
and  in  the  impulse  of  the  hour  you  abandon  them ;  holy 
resohitions  beam  again  upon  your  soul  like  sunlight ; 
your  purposes  seem  bathed  in  goodness.  There  is  an 
effervescence  of  the  spirit  that  carries  away  all  foul 
matter,  and  leaves  you  in  a  state  of  calm  that  seems 
kindred  to  the  land  and  to  the  life  whither  the  sainted 
mother  has  gone. 

This  calm  brings  a  smile  in  the  middle  of  tears,  and 
an  inward  looking  and  leaning  toward  that  Eternal 
Power  which  governs  and  guides  us  ;  —  with  that  smile 
and  that  leaning,  sleep  comes  like  an  angelic  minister, 
and  fondles  your  wearied  frame  and  thought  into  that 
repose  which  is  the  mirror  of  the  Destroyer. 

Poor  Clarence,  he  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 

—  whose  goodness  lies  chiefly  in  the  occasional  throbs 
of  a  better  nature,  which  soon  subside,  and  leave  them 
upon  the  old  level  of  desire. 

As  you  lie  between  waking  and  sleeping,  you  have  a 
fancy  of  a  sound  at  your  door ;  —  it  seems  to  open 
softly,  and  the  tall  figure  of  your  father,  wrapped  in 
his  dressing-gown,  stands  over  you,  and  gazes  —  as  he 
gazed  at  you  before  ;  —  his  look  is  very  mournful ;  and 
he  murmurs  your  mother's  name  —  and  sighs  —  and 
looks  again  —  and  passes  out. 

At  morning  you  cannot  tell  if  it  was  real  or  a  dream. 
Those  higher  resolves  too,  which  grief  and  the  night 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  155 

made,  seem  very  vague  and  shadow^-.  Life  \vith  its 
ambitious  and  cankerous  desires  wakes  again.  You  do 
not  feel  them  at  first ;  the  subjugation  of  holy  thoughts 
and  of  reaches  toward  the  Infinite,  leave  their  traces 
on  you,  and  perhaps  bewilder  you  into  a  half-conscious- 
ness of  strength.  But  at  the  first  touch  of  the  grosser 
elements  about  you,  —  on  your  very  first  entrance  upon 
those  duties  which  quicken  pride  or  shame,  and  which 
are  pointing  at  you  from  every  quarter,  —  your  holy 
calm,  your  high-born  purpose,  your  spiritual  cleav- 
ings, pass  away,  like  the  electricity  of  August  storms 
drawn  down  by  the  thousand  glittering  turrets  of  a 
city! 

The  world  is  stronger  than  the  night ;  and  the  bind- 
ings of  sense  are  tenfold  stronger  than  the  most  ex- 
quisite delirium  of  soul.  This  makes  you  feel,  or  will 
one  day  make  you  feel,  that  life,  —  strong  life  and 
sound  life,  —  that  life  which  lends  approaches  to  the 
Infinite,  and  takes  hold  on  Heaven,  is  not  so  much  a 
Progress  as  it  is  a  Resistance  ! 

There  is  one  special  confidence  which,  in  all  your 
talk  about  plans  and  purposes,  you  do  not  give  to  your 
lather :  you  reserve  that  for  the  ear  of  Nelly  alone. 
Why  happens  it  that  a  father  is  almost  the  last  con- 
fidant that  a  son  makes  in  any  matter  deeply  affect- 
ing the  feelings?  Is  it  the  fear  that  a  father  may 
regard  such  matter  as  boyish  ?     Is  it  a  lingering  sus- 


156  DREAM-LIFE. 

picion  of  your  own  childishness ;  or  of  that  extreme 
of  affection  which  reduces  you  to  childishness  ? 

Why  is  it  always  that  a  man,  of  whatever  age  or  con- 
dition, forbears  to  exhibit  to  those  whose  respect  for  his 
judgment  and  mental  abilities  only  he  seeks,  the  most 
earnest  qualities  of  the  heart,  and  those  intenser  suscep- 
tibilities of  love  which  underlie  his  nature,  and  which 
give  a  color  in  spite  of  him  to  the  habit  of  his  life  ? 
"Why  is  he  so  morbidly  anxious  to  keep  out  of  sight  any 
extravagances  of  affection,  when  he  blurts  officiously  to 
the  world  his  extravagances  of  action  and  of  thought  ? 
Can  any  lover  explain  me  this  ? 

Again,  why  is  a  sister  the  one  of  all  others  to  whom 
you  first  whisper  the  dawnings  of  any  strong  emotion, 
—  as  if  it  were  a  weakness  that  her  charity  alone  could 
cover  ? 

However  this  may  be,  you  have  a  long  story  for 
Nelly's  ear.  It  is  some  days  after  your  return :  you 
are  strolling  down  a  quiet,  wooded  lane,  —  a  remem- 
bered place,  —  when  you  first  open  to  her  your  heart. 
Your  talk  is  of  Laura  Dalton.  You  describe  her  to 
Nelly  with  the  extravagance  of  a  glowing  hope.  You 
picture  those  qualities  that  have  attracted  you  most ; 
you  dwell  upon  her  beauty,  her  elegant  figure,  her  grace 
of  conversation,  her  accomplishments.  You  make  a 
study  that  feeds  your  passion  as  you  go  on.  You  rise 
by  the  very  glow  of  your  speech  into  a  frenzy  of  feel- 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  157 

ing  that  she  has  never  excited  before.  You  are  quite 
sure  that  you  would  be  \yretched  and  miserable  \\'ithout 
her. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  marry  her  ?  "  says  Nelly. 

It  is  a  question  that  gives  a  swift  bound  to  the  blood 
of  youth.  It  involves  the  idea  of  possession,  and  of 
the  dependence  of  the  cherished  one  upon  your  own 
arm  and  strength.  But  the  admiration  you  entertain 
seems  almost  too  lofty  for  this  ;  Nelly's  question  makes 
you  diffident  of  reply  ;  and  you  lose  yourself  in  a  new 
story  of  those  excellencies  of  speech  and  of  figure 
which  have  so  charmed  you. 

Nelly's  eye  on  a  sudden  becomes  full  of  tears. 

"  What  is  it,  Nelly  ?  " 

"  Our  mother,  Clarence." 

The  word  and  the  thought  dampen  your  ardor ;  the 
sweet  watchfulness  and  gentle  kindness  of  that  parent 
for  an  instant  make  a  sad  contrast  with  the  showy 
qualities  you  have  been  naming ;  and  the  spirit  of  that 
mother  —  called  up  by  Nelly's  words  —  seems  to  hang 
over  you  with  an  anxious  love  that  subdues  all  your 
pride  of  passion. 

But  this  passes ;  and  now  —  half  believing  th;;t 
Nelly's  thoughts  have  run  over  the  same  ground  with 
yours  —  you  turn  special  pleader  for  your  fancy.  You 
argue  for  the  beauty  which  you  just  now  affirmed ;  you 
do  your  utmost  to  win  over  Nelly  to  some  burst  of 


158  DREAM-LIFE. 

admiration.  Yet  there  she  sits  beside  you,  thought- 
fiilly  and  half  sadly,  playing  with  the  frail  autumn 
flowers  that  grow  at  her  side.  What  can  she  be  think- 
ing ?     You  ask  it  by  a  look. 

She  smiles, — takes  your  hand,  for  she  will  not  let 
you  grow  angry,  — 

"  I  was  thinking,  Clarence,  whether  this  Laura  Dalton 
would,  after  all,  make  a  good  wife,  —  such  an  one  as 
you  would  love  always  ?  " 


VII. 

A  Good  Wife, 

rMHE  thought  of  Nelly  suggests  new  dreams  that 
-^  are  little  apt  to  find  place  in  the  rhapsodies  of  a 
youthful  lover.  The  very  epithet  of  a  good  wife  mates 
tamely  with  the  romantic  fancies  of  a  first  passion.  It 
is  measuring  the  ideal  by  too  practical  a  standard.  It 
sweeps  away,  all  the  delightful  vagueness  of  a  fairy 
dream  of  love,  and  reduces  one  to  a  dull  and  economic 
estimate  of  actual  qualities.  Passion  lives  above  all 
analysis  and  estimate,  and  arrives  at  its  conclusions  by 
intuition. 

Did  Petrarch  ever  think  if  Laura  would  make  a  good 
wife ;  did  Oswald  ever  think  it  of  Corinne  ?  Nay,  did 
even  the  more  practical  Waverley  ever  think  it  of  the 
impassioned  Flora  ?  "Would  it  not  weaken  faith  in 
their  romantic  passages,  if  you  believed  it?  "What 
have  such  vulgar,  practical  issues  to  do  with  that 
passion  which  sublimates  the  faculties,  and  makes  the 
loving  dreamer  to  live  in  an  ideal  sphere  where  nothing 
but  goodness  and  brightness  can  come  ? 

Nelly  is  to  be  pitied  for  entertaining  such  a  thought ; 


160  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  yet  Nelly  is  very  good  and  kind.  Her  afFectious 
are  without  doubt  all  centred  in  the  remnant  of  the 
shattered  home  ;  she  has  never  known  any  further  and 
deeper  love ;  never  once  fancied  it  even  — 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  are  very  young  ! 

And  yet  there  are  some  things  that  puzzle  you  in 
Nelly.  You  have  found  accidentally,  in  one  of  her 
treasured  books,  —  a  book  that  lies  almost  always  on 
her  dressing-table,  —  a  little  withered  flower  with  its 
stem  in  a  slip  of  paper,  and  on  the  paper  the  initials 
of —  your  old  friend  Frank.  You  recall,  in  connection 
with  this,  her  indisposition  to  talk  of  him  on  the  first 
evening  of  your  return.  It  seems  —  you  scarce  know 
why  —  that  these  are  the  tokens  of  something  very  like 
a  leaning  of  the  heart.  It  does  occur  to  you  that  she 
too  may  have  her  little  casket  of  loves ;  and  you  try 
one  day  very  adroitly  to  take  a  look  into  this  casket. 

You  will  learn  later  in  life  that  the  heart  of  a 

modest,  gentle  girl  is  a  very  hard  matter  for  even  a 
brother  to  probe ;  it  is  at  once  the  most  tender  and  the 
most  unapproachable  of  all  fastnesses.  It  admits  feel- 
ing by  armies,  with  great  trains  of  artillery,  —  but  not  a 
single  scout.  It  is  as  calm  and  pure  as  polar  snows ; 
but  deep  underneath,  where  no  footsteps  have  gone, 
and  where  no  eye  can  reach  but  one,  lies  the  warm  and 
the  throbbing  earth. 

Make  what  you  will  of  the  slight,  quivering  blushes, 


A    GOOD    WIFE.  161 

and  of  the  half  broken  expressions,  —  more  you  cannot 
get.  The  love  that  a  delicate-minded  girl  will  tell  is  a 
short-sighted  and  outside  love ;  but  the  love  that  she 
cherishes  without  voice  or  token  is  a  love  that  will 
mould  her  secret  sympathies,  and  her  deepest,  fondest 
yearnings,  either  to  a  quiet  world  of  joy,  or  to  a  world 
of  placid  sufferance.  The  true  voice  of  her  love  she 
will  keep  back  long  and  late,  fearful  ever  of  her  most 
prized  jewel,  —  fearful  to  strange  sensitiveness ;  she  will 
show  kindness,  but  the  opening  of  the  real  floodgates 
of  the  heart,  and  the  utterance  of  those  impassioned 
yearnings  which  belong  to  its  nature,  come  far  later. 
And  fearful,  thrice  fearful  is  the  shock,  if  these  flow 
out  unmet ! 

That  deep,  thrilling  voice,  bearing  all  the  perfume  of 
the  womanly  soul  in  its  flow,  rarely  finds  utterance; 
and  if  uttered  vainly,  —  if  called  out  by  tempting  de- 
vices, and  by  a  trust  that  is  abused,  —  desolate  indeed 
is  the  maiden  heart,  widowed  of  its  chastest  thought ! 
The  soul  shrinks  affrighted  within  itself  Like  a  tired 
bird  lost  at  sea,  fluttering  around  what  seem  friendly 
boughs,  it  stoops  at  length,  and  finding  only  cold,  slip- 
pery spars,  with  no  bloom  and  no  foliage, —  its  last  hope 
gone,  —  it  sinks  to  a  wild  ocean  grave  ! 

Nelly  —  and  the  thought  brings  a  tear  of  sympathy 
to  your  eye  —  must  have  such  a  heart ;  it  speaks  in 
every  shadow  of  her  action.     And  this  very  delicacy 


162  DREAM-LIFE. 

seems  to  lend  her  a  charm  that  would  make  her  a  wife 
to  be  loved  and  honored. 

Ay,  there  is  something  in  that  maidenly  modesty  — 
retiring  from  you  as  you  advance,  retreating  timidly 
from  all  bold  api^roaches,  fearful  and  yet  joyous — which 
wins  upon  the  iron  hardness  of  a  man's  nature  like  a 
rising  flame.  To  force  of  action  and  resolve  he  opposes 
force ;  to  strong  will  he  mates  his  own  ;  pride  lights 
pride ;  but  to  the  gentleness  of  the  true  womanly  char- 
acter he  yields  with  a  gush  of  tenderness  that  nothing 
else  can  call  out.  He  will  never  be  subjugated  on  his 
own  ground  of  action  and  energy ;  but  let  him  be  lured 
to  that  border  coimtry  over  which  the  delicacy  and 
fondness  of  a  womanly  nature  presides,  and  his  energy 
yields,  his  haughty  determination  faints,  he  is  proud  of 
submission  ! 

And  with  this  thought  of  modesty  and  gentleness  to 
illuminate  your  dream  of  an  ideal  wife,  you  chase  the 
pleasant  phantom  to  that  shadowy  home  — lying  far  off 
in  the  future — of  which  she  is  the  glory  and  the  crown. 
I  know  it  is  the  fashion  nowadays  with  many  to  look 
for  a  woman's  excellencies  and  influence  —  away  from 
her  home  ;  but  I  know  too  that  a  vast  many  eager  and 
hopeful  hearts  still  cherish  the  belief  that  her  virtues 
vdll  range  highest  and  live  longest  within  those  sacred 
walls. 

Where,  indeed,  can  the  modest  and  earnest  virtue  of 


A    GOOD    WIFE.  163 

a  woman  tell  a  stronger  story  of  its  worth  than  upon 
the  dawning  habit  of  a  child  ?  Where  can  her  grace 
of  character  win  a  higher  and  a  riper  effect  than  upon 
the  action  of  her  household  ?  What  mean  those  noisy 
declaimers  who  talk  of  the  feeble  influence,  and  of  the 
crushed  faculties,  of  a  woman  ? 

What  school  of  learning,  or  of  moral  endeavor,  de- 
pends more  on  its  teacher,  than  the  home  upon  the 
mother  ?  Wliat  influence  of  all  the  world's  professors 
and  teachers  tells  so  strongly  on  the  habit  of  a  man's 
mind  as  those  gentle  droppings  from  a  mother's  lips, 
which,  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  grow  into  the 
enlarging  stature  of  his  soul,  and  live  with  it  forever  ? 
They  can  hardly  be  mothers  who  aim  at  a  broader  and 
noisier  field ;  they  have  forgotten  to  be  daughters  ;  they 
must  needs  have  lost  the  hope  of  being  wives  ! 

Be  this  how  it  may,  the  heart  of  a  man  with  whom 
affection  is  not  a  name,  and  love  a  mere  passion  of  tlie 
hour,  yearns  toward  the  quiet  of  a  home  as  toward  the 
goal  of  his  earthly  joy  and  hope.  And  as  you  fasten 
there  your  thought,  an  indulgent  yet  dreamy  fancy 
paints  the  loved  image  that  is  to  adorn  it  and  to  make 
it  sacred. 

She  is  there  to  bid  you   God  speed  !  and   an 

adieu  that  hangs  like  music  on  your  ear  as  you  go  out 
to  the  every-day  labor  of  life.  At  evening  she  is  there 
to  greet  you,  as  you  come  back  wearied  with  a  day's 


164  DREAM-LIFE. 

toil ;  and  her  look  so  full  of  gladness  clreats  you  of 
your  fatigue ;  and  she  steals  her  arm  around  you  with 
a  soul  of  welcome  that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her 
brow,  and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of  a  twin  grat- 
itude —  to  her  and  Heaven  ! 

She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fashioned  virtues 
of  cleanliness  and  of  order  which  give  an  air  of  quiet, 
and  which  secure  content.  Your  wants  are  all  antici- 
pated :  the  fire  is  burning  brightly ;  the  clean  hearth 
flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze  ;  the  old  elbovz-chair  is 
in  its  place.  Your  very  unworthiness  of  all  this  haunts 
you  like  an  accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 
heart  with  a  new  devotion  toward  the  loved  one  who  is 
thus  watchful  of  your  comfort. 

She  is  gentle,  —  keeping  your  love,  as  she  has  won 
it,  by  a  thousand  nameless  and  modest  virtues  which 
radiate  from  her  whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon 
your  affections  like  a  summer  wind  breathing  softly 
over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains  a  mastery  over  your 
sterner  nature  by  very  contrast,  and  wins  you  unwit- 
tingly to  her  lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  are 
guided  by  that  delicate  tadt  which  avoids  conflict  with 
your  manly  pride ;  she  subdues  by  seeming  to  yield. 
By  a  single  soft  word  of  appeal  she  robs  your  vexation 
of  its  anger ;  and,  with  a  slight  touch  of  that  fair  hand, 
and  one  pleading  look  of  that  earnest  eye,  she  disarms 
your  sternest  pride. 


A   GOOD    WIFE.  165 

She  is  kind,  —  shedding  her  kindness  as  heaven 
sheds  dew.  Wlio  indeed  could  doubt  it  ?  —  least  of  all 
you,  who  are  living  on  her  kindness  day  by  day,  as 
flowers  live  on  light  ?  There  is  none  of  that  officious 
parade  which  blunts  the  point  of  benevolence  ;  but  it 
tempers  every  action  with  a  blessing.  If  trouble  has 
come  upon  you,  she  knows  that  her  voice,  beguiling  you 
into  cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears  ;  and  as  she  draws 
her  chair  beside  you,  she  knows  that  the  tender  and 
confiding  way  with  which  she  takes  your  hand,  and 
looks  up  into  your  earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from 
your  annoyance  all  its  weight.  As  she  lingers,  leading 
off  your  thought  with  pleasant  words,  she  knows  well 
that  she  is  redeeming  you  from  care,  and  soothing  you 
to  that  sweet  calm  which  such  home  and  such  wife  can 
alone  bestow.  And  in  sickness,  —  sickness  that  you 
almost  covet  for  the  sympathy  it  brings, —  that  hand  of 
hers  resting  on  your  fevered  forehead,  or  those  fingers 
playing  with  the  scattered  locks,  are  more  full  of  kind- 
ness than  the  loudest  vaunt  of  friends ;  and  when  your 
failing  strength  will  permit  no  more,  you  grasp  that 
cherished  hand  with  a  fulness  of  joy,  of  thankfulness, 
and  of  love,  which  your  tears  only  can  tell. 

She  is  good ;  her  hopes  live  where  the  angels  live. 
Her  kindness  and  gentleness  are  sweetly  tempered 
with  that  meekness  and  forbearance  which  are  born  of 
Faith.     Trust  comes  into  her  heart  as  rivers  come  to 


166  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of  doubt  and  fore 
boding  you  rest  fondly  upon  her  buoyant  Faith,  as  the 
treasure  of  your  common  life ;  and  in  your  holier 
musings  you  look  to  that  frail  hand,  and  that  gentle 
spirit,  to  lead  you  away  from  the  vanities  of  worldly 
ambition  to  the  fulness  of  that  joy  which  the  good 
inherit. 
Is  Laura  Dalton  such  an  one  ? 


vin. 

A  Broken  Hope. 

■XTOUTHFUL  passion  is  a  giant.  It  overleaps  all 
-*-  the  dreams,  and  all  the  resolves  of  our  better  and 
quieter  nature  ;  and  drives  madly  toward  some  wild 
issue,  that  lives  only  in  its  frenzy.  How  little  account 
does  passion  take  of  goodness !  It  is  not  within  the 
cycle  of  its  revolution  :  it  is  below ;  it  is  tamer ;  it  is 
older ;  it  wears  no  wings. 

And  your  proud  heart  flashing  back  to  the  memory 
of  that  sparkling  eye  which  lighted  your  hope  —  full- 
fed  upon  the  vanities  of  cloister  learning,  drives  your 
soberer  visions  to  the  wind.  As  you  recall  those  tones, 
so  full  of  brilliancy  and  pride,  the  quiet  virtues  fade, 
like  the  soft  haze  upon  a  spring  landscape  driven  west- 
ward by  a  swift,  sea-born  storm.  The  pulse  bounds ; 
the  eyes  flash  ;  the  heart  trembles  with  its  sharp  springs. 
Hope  dilates,  like  the  eye,  fed  with  swift  blood  leaping 
to  the  brain. 

Again  the  image  of  Miss  Dalton,  so  fine,  so  noble,  so 
womanly,  fills  and  bounds  the  Future.  The  lingering 
tears  of  grief  drop  away  from  your  eye,  as  the  lingering 


168  DREAM-LIFE. 

loves  of  boyhood  drop  from  your  scalding  passion,  or 
drip  into  clouds  of  vapor. 

You  listen  to  the  calm,  thoughtful  advice  of  the 
father,  with  a  deep  consciousness  of  something  stronger 
than  his  counsels  seething  in  your  bosom.  The  words 
of  caution,  of  instruction  of  guidance,  fall  upon  your 
heated  imagination  like  the  night-dews  upon  the  crater 
of  an  ^tna.  They  are  beneficent  and  healthful  for  the 
straggling  herbage  upon  the  surface  of  the  mountain, 
but  they  do  not  reach  or  temper  the  inner  fires  that  are 
rolling  their  billows  of  flame  beneath ! 

You  drop  hints  from  time  to  time,  to  those  with  whom 
you  are  most  familiar,  of  some  prospective  change  of 
condition.  There  is  a  new  and  cheerful  interest  in  tl^ 
building-plans  of  your  neighbors,  —  a  new  and  cheer- 
ful study  of  the  principles  of  domestic  architecture,  — 
in  which  very  elegant  boudoirs,  adorned  with  harps, 
hold  prominent  place  ;  and  libraries  with  gilt-bound 
books,  very  rich  in  lyrical  and  dramatic  poetry ;  fine 
views  from  bay  -  windows  ;  graceful  pots  of  flowers  ; 
sleek-looking  Italian  greyhounds ;  cheerful  sunlight ; 
musical  goldfinches  cliattering  on  the  wall ;  superb  pict- 
ures of  princesses  in  peasant  dresses  ;  soft  Axminster 
carpets  ;  easy-acting  bell-pulls  ;  gigantic  candelabrums  ; 
porcelain  vases  of  classic  shape ;  neat  waiters  in  white 
aprons  ;  luxurious  lounges  ;  and,  to  crown  them  all  with 
the  very  height  of  your  pride,  —  the  elegant  Laura, 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  169 

the  mistress,  and  the  guardian  of  your  soul,  moving 
amid  the  scene  like  a  new  Duchess  of  Valliere  ! 

You  catch  chance  sights  here  and  there  of  the  blue- 
eyed  Madge :  you  see  her  in  her  mother's  household, 
the  earnest  and  devoted  daughter,  —  gliding  gracefully 
about  her  mother's  cottage,  the  very  type  of  gentleness 
and  of  duty.  Yet  withal  there  are  sparks  of  spirit  in 
her  that  pique  your  pride,  lofty  as  it  is.  You  offer 
flowers,  which  she  accepts  with  a  kind  smile,  not  of 
coquetry,  but  of  simplest  thankfulness.  She  is  not  the 
girl  to  gratify  your  vanity  with  any  half-show  of  tender- 
ness. And  if  there  lived  ever  in  her  heart  an  old 
girlish  liking  for  the  schoolboy  Clarence,  it  is  all  gone 
before  the  romantic  lover  of  the  elegant  Laura ;  or  at 
most  it  lies  in  some  obscure  corner  of  her  soul,  never 
to  be  brought  to  light. 

You  enter  upon  the  new  pursuits,  which  your  father 
has  advised,  with  a  lofty  consciousness,  not  only  of 
the  strength  of  your  mind,  but  of  your  heart.  You 
relieve  your  opening  professional  study  with  long  letters 
to  Miss  Dalton,  full  of  Shakspearean  compliments,  and 
touched  off  with  very  dainty  elaboration.  And  you 
receive  pleasant,  gossiping  notes  in  answer,  —  full  of 
quotations,  but  meaning  very  little. 

Youth  is  in  a  grand  flush,  like  the  hot  days  of  ending 
summer ;  and  pleasant  dreams  thrall  your  spirit,  like 
the  smoky  atmosphere  that  bathes  the  landscape  of  an 


170  DREAM-LIFE. 

August  day.  Hope  rides  high  in  the  heavens,  as  when 
the  summer  sun  mounts  nearest  to  the  zenith.  Youth 
feels  the  fulness  of  maturity  before  the  second  season 
of  life  is  ended ;  yet  is  it  a  vain  maturity,  and  all  the 
glow  is  deceitful.  Those  fruits  that  ripen  in  summer  do 
not  last.  They  are  sweet ;  they  are  glowing  with  gold ; 
but  they  melt  with  a  luscious  sweetness  upon  the  lip. 
They  do  not  give  that  strength  and  nutriment  which 
will  bear  a  man  bravely  through  the  coming  chills  of 
winter. 

The  last  scene  of  summer  changes  now  to  the  cob- 
webbed  ceiling  of  an  attorney's  office.  Books  of  law, 
scattered  ingloriously  at  your  elbow,  speak  dully  to  the 
flush  of  your  vanities.  You  are  seated  at  your  side- 
desk,  where  you  have  wrought  at  those  heavy,  mechanic 
labors  of  drafting  which  go  before  a  knowledge  of  your 
craft. 

A  letter  is  by  you,  which  you  regard  with  strange 
feelings :  it  is  yet  unopened.  It  comes  from  Laura.  It 
IS  in  reply  to  one  which  has  cost  you  very  much  of 
exquisite  elaboration.  You  have  made  your  avowal  of 
feeling  as  much  like  a  poem  as  your  education  would 
admit.  Indeed  it  was  a  pretty  letter,  —  promising  not 
so  much  the  trustful  love  of  an  earnest  and  devoted 
heart,  as  the  fervor  of  a  passion  which  consumed 
you,  and  glowed  like  a  furnace  through    the  lines  of 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  171 

your  letter.  It  was  a  confession  in  which  your  vanity 
of  intellect  had  taken  very  entertaining  part,  and  in 
which  your  judgment  was  too  cool  to  appear  at  all. 

She  must  needs  break  out  into  raptures  at  such  a 
letter;  and  her  own  will  doubtless  be  tempered  with 
even  greater  passion. 

It  is  well  to  shift  your  chair  somewhat,  so  that  the 
clerks  of  the  office  may  not  see  your  emotion  as  you 
read.  It  would  be  silly  to  manifest  your  exuberance 
in  a  dismal,  dark  office  of  your  instructing  attorney. 
One  sighs  rather  for  woods,  and  brooks,  and  sunshine, 
in  whose  company  the  hopes  of  youth  stretch  into  ful- 
filment. 

"We  will  look  only  at  a  closing  passage :  — 

"  My  friend  Clarence  will,  I  trust,  believe  me, 


when  I  say  that  his  letter  was  a  surprise  to  me.  To 
say  that  it  was  very  grateful,  would  be  what  my 
womanly  vanity  could  not  fail  to  claim.  I  only  wish 
that  I  was  equal  to  the  flattering  portrait  which  he  has 
drawn.  I  even  half  fancy  that  he  is  joking  me,  and 
can  hardly  believe  that  my  matronly  air  should  have 
quite  won  his  youthful  heart.  At  least  I  shall  try  not  to 
believe  it ;  and  when  I  welcome  him  one  day,  the  hus- 
band of  some  fairy  who  is  worthy  of  his  love,  we  will 
smile  together  at  the  old  lady  who  once  played  the 
Circe  to  his  senses.     Seriously,  my  friend  Clarence,  I 


172  DREAM-LIFE. 

know  your  impulse  of  heart  has  carried  you  away,  and 
that  in  a  year's  time,  you  will  smile  with  me  at  your  old 
penchant  for  one  so  much  your  senior,  and  so  ill-suited 
to  your  years,  as  your  true  friend,  Laura." 


Magnificent  Miss  Dalton  ! 

Read  it  again.  Stick  your  knife  in  the  desk :  —  tut ! 
—  you  will  break  the  blade  !  Fold  up  the  letter  care- 
fully, and  toss  it  upon  your  pile  of  papers.  Open 
Chitty  again  ;  —  pleasant  reading  is  Chitty !  Lean 
upon  your  hand  —  your  two  hands,  so  that  no  one  will 
catch  sight  of  your  face.  Chitty  is  very  interesting,  — 
how  sparkling  and  imaginative  !  —  what  a  depth  and 
flow  of  passion  in  Chitty ! 

The  office  is  a  capital  place  —  so  quiet  and  sunny. 
Law  is  a  delightful  study  —  so  captivating,  and  such 
stores  of  romance  !  And  then  those  trips  to  the  Hall 
offer  such  relief  and  variety,  —  especially  just  now. 
It  would  be  well  not  to  betray  your  eagerness  to  go. 
You  can  brush  your  hat  a  round  or  two,  and  take  a 
peep  into  the  broken  bit  of  looking-glass  over  the  wash- 
stand. 

You  lengthen  your  walk,  as  you  sometimes  do,  by  a 
stroll  upon  the  Battery,  —  though  rarely  upon  such  a 
blustering  November  day.  You  put  your  hands  in 
your  pockets,  and  look  out  upon  the  tossing  sea. 

It  is  a  fine  sight  —  very  fine.     There  are  few  finer 


A   BROKEN  HOPE.  173 

bays  in  the  world  than  New  York  Bay,  —  either  to 
look  at,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  sleep  in.  The  ships  ride 
up  thickly,  dashing  about  the  cold  spray  delightfully  ; 
the  little  cutters  gleam  in  the  November  sunshine  like 
white  flowers  shivering  in  the  wind. 

The  sky  is  rich  —  all  mottled  with  cold,  gray  streaks 
of  cloud.  The  old  apple-women,  with  their  noses  frost- 
bitten, look  cheerful  and  blue.  The  ragged  immi- 
grants, in  short  trousers  and  bell-crowned  hats,  stalk 
about  with  a  very  happy  expression,  and  very  short- 
stemmed  pipes;  their  yellow-haired  babies  look  com- 
fortably red  and  glowing.  And  the  trees  with  their 
scant,  pinched  foliage  have  a  charming,  summer-like 
effect ! 

Amid  it  all  the  thoughts  of  the  boudoir,  and  harp- 
sichord, and  goldfinches,  and  Axminster  carpets,  and 
sunshine,  and  Laura,  are  so  very,  very  pleasant !  How 
delighted  you  would  be  to  see  her  married  to  the  stout 
man  in  the  red  cravat,  who  gave  her  bouquets,  and 
strolled  with  her  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  upon  the 
St.  Lawrence !  "What  a  jaunty,  self-satisfied  air  he 
wore  ;  and  with  what  considerate  forbearance  he  treated 
you  —  calling  you  once  or  twice  Master  Clarence !  It 
never  occurred  to  you  before,  how  much  you  must  be 
indebted  to  that  pleasant,  stout  man. 

You  try  sadly  to  be  cheerful ;  you  smile  oddly ;  your 
pride  comes  strongly  to  your  help,  but  yet  helps  you 


174  DREAM-LIFE. 

very  little.  It  is  not  so  much  a  broken  heart  that  you 
have  to  mourn  over,  as  a  broken  dream.  You  seem  to 
see  in  a  hundred  ways,  that  had  never  occurred  to  you 
before,  the  marks  of  her  superior  age.  Above  all  it  is 
manifest  in  the  cool  and  unimpassioned  tone  of  her 
letter.  Yet  how  kindly  withal !  It  would  be  a  relief 
to  be  angry. 

New  visions  come  to  you,  wakened  by  the  broken 
fancy  which  has  just  now  eluded  your  grasp.  You  will 
make  yourself,  if  not  old,  at  least  gifted  with  the  force 
and  dignity  of  age.  You  will  be  a  man,  and  build  no 
more  castles  until  you  can  people  them  with  men  !  In 
an  excess  of  pride  you  even  take  umbrage  at  the  sex ; 
they  can  have  little  appreciation  of  that  engrossing 
tenderness  of  which  you  feel  yourself  to  be  capable. 
Love  shall  henceforth  be  dead,  and  you  will  live  boldly 
without  it. 

Just  so,  when   some  dark,  eastern   cloud-bank 

shrouds  for  a  morning  the  sun  of  later  August,  we  say 
in  our  shivering  pride  —  the  winter  is  come  early  !  But 
God  manages  the  seasons  better  than  we  ;  and  in  a  day, 
or  an  hour  perhaps,  the  cloud  will  pass,  and  the  heavens 
glow  again  upon  our  ungrateful  heads. 

Well  it  is  even  so,  that  the  passionate  dreams  of 
youth  break  up,  and  wither.  Vanity  becomes  tempered 
vith  wholesome  pride ;  and  passion  yields  to  the  riper 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  175 

judgment  of  manhood,  —  even  as  the  August  heats 
pass  on,  and  over,  into  the  genial  glow  of  a  September 
sun.  There  is  a  strono-  orowth  in  the  struo-jjles  against 
mortified  pride  ;  and  then  only  does  the  youth  get  an 
ennobling  consciousness  of  that  manhood  which  is 
dawning  in  him,  when  he  has  fairly  surmounted  those 
puny  vexations  which  a  wounded  vanity  creates. 

Now  your  heart  is  driven  home ;  and  that  cherished 
place,  where  so  little  while  ago  you  wore  your  vanities 
with  an  air  that  mocked  even  your  grief,  and  that  sub- 
dued your  better  nature,  seems  to  stretch  toward  you 
over  long  miles  of  distance -its  wings  of  love,  and  to 
welcome  back  to  the  sister's  and  the  father's  heart, 
not  the  self-  sufficient  and  vaunting  youth,  but  the 
brother  and  son  —  the  schoolboy  Clarence.  Like  a 
thii'sty  child,  you  stray  in  thought  to  that  fountain  of 
cheer,  and  live  again  —  your  vanity  crushed,  your  wild 
hope  broken  —  in  the  warm  and  natural  affections  of 
the  boyish  home. 

Clouds  weave  the  Summer  into  the  season  of  Au- 
tumn ;  and  Youth  rises  from  dashed  hopes  into  the 
stature  of  a  Man. 


AUTUMN; 


THE  DREAMS   OF  MANHOOD, 


BREAMS  OF  MANHOOD. 


Autumn. 


THERE  are  those  who  shudder  at  the  approach  of 
Autumn,  and  who  feel  a  Hght  grief  stealing  over 
their  spirits,  like  an  October  haze,  as  the  evening  shad- 
ows slant  sooner,  and  longer,  over  the  face  of  an  ending 
August  day. 

But  is  not  Autumn  the  Manhood  of  the  year  ?  Is  it 
not  the  ripest  of  the  seasons  ?  Do  not  proud  flowers 
blossom,  —  the  golden-rod,  the  orchis,  the  dahlia,  and 
the  bloody  cardinal  of  the  swamp-lands  ? 

The  fruits  too  are  golden,  hanging  heavy  from  the 
tasked  trees.  The  fields  of  maize  show  weeping  spin- 
dles, and  broad  rustling  leaves,  and  ears  half  glowing 
Avith  the  crowded  corn ;  the  September  wind  whistles 
over  their  thick-set  ranks  with  whispers  of  plenty.  The 
staggering  stalks  of  the  buckwheat  grow  red  with  ripe- 
ness, and  tip  their  tops  with  clustering  tricornered 
kernels. 

The   cattle,  loosed    from    the    summers  yoke,  grow 


180  DREAM-LIFE. 

strong  upon  the  meadows  new  -  starting  from  tlie 
scythe.  The  lambs  of  April,  rounded  into  fulness  of 
limb,  and  gaining  day  by  day  their  woolly  cloak,  bite  at 
the  nodding  clover-heads ;  or,  with  their  noses  to  the 
ground,  they  stand  in  solemn,  circular  conclave  under 
the  pasture  oaks,  while  the  noon-sun  beats  with  the 
lingering  passion  of  July. 

The  Bob-o'-Lincolns  have  come  back  from  their 
Southern  rambles  among  the  rice,  all  speckled  with 
gray ;  and,  singing  no  longer  as  they  did  in  spring, 
they  quietly  feed  upon  the  ripened  reeds  that  straggle 
along  the  borders  of  the  walls.  The  larks,  with  their 
black  and  yellow  breastplates,  and  lifted  heads,  stand 
tall  upon  the  close-mown  meadow,  and  at  your  first 
motion  of  approach  spring  up,  and  soar  away,  and  light 
again,  and  with  their  lifted  heads  renew  the  watch. 
The  quails,  in  half-grown  coveys,  saunter  hidden  through 
the  underbrush  that  skirts  the  wood,  and  only  when 
you  are  close  upon  them,  whir  away,  and  drop  scattered 
under  the  coverts  of  the  forest. 

The  robins,  long  ago  deserting  the  garden  neighbor- 
hood, feed  at  eventide  in  flocks  upon  the  bloody  ber- 
ries of  the  sumac  ;  and  the  soft-eyed  pigeons  dispute 
possession  of  the  feast.  The  squirrels  chatter  at  sun- 
rise, and  gnaw  off  the  full-grown  burrs  of  the  chestnuts. 
The  lazy  blackbirds  skip  after  the  loitering  cow,  watch- 
ful of  the  crickets  that  her  slow  steps  start  to  danger. 


AUTUMN.  181 

The  crows  in  companies  caw  aloft,  and  hang  high  over 
the  carcass  of  some  slaughtered  sheep  lying  ragged 
upon  the  hills. 

The  ash-trees  grow  crimson  in  color,  and  lose  their 
summer  life  in  great  gouts  of  blood.  The  birches  touch 
their  frail  spray  with  yellow ;  the  chestnuts  drop  down 
their  leaves  in  brown,  twirling  showers.  The  beeches, 
crimped  with  the  frost,  guard  their  foliage  until  each 
leaf  whistles  white  in  the  November  gales.  The  bitter- 
sweet hangs  its  bare  and  leafless  tendrils  from  rock  to 
tree,  and  sways  with  the  weight  of  its  brazen  berries. 
The  sturdy  oaks,  unyielding  to  the  winds  and  to  the 
frosts,  struggle  long  against  the  approaches  of  the  win- 
ter, and  in  their  struggles  wear  faces  of  orange,  of  scar- 
let, of  crimson,  and  of  brown ;  and  finally,  yielding  to 
swift  winds,  as  youth's  pride  yields  to  manly  duty,  strew 
the  ground  with  the  scattered  glories  of  their  summer 
strength,  and  warm  and  feed  the  earth  with  the  debris 
of  their  leafy  honors. 

The  maple  in  the  lowlands  turns  suddenly  its  silvery 
greenness  into  orange  scarlet,  and  in  the  coming  chil- 
liness of  the  autumn  eventide  seems  to  catch  the  glories 
of  the  sunset,  and  to  wear  them  —  as  a  ^ign  of  God's 
old  promise  in  Egypt  —  like  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day, 
and  of  fire  by  night. 

And  when  all  these  are  done, — and  in  the  paved  and 
noisy  aisles  of  the  city  the  ailantus,  with  all  its  green- 


182  DREAM-LIFE. 

ness  gone,  lifts  up  its  skeleton  fingers  to  the  God  of 
Autum-n  and  of  storms,  —  the  dogwood  still  guards  its 
crown  ;  and  the  branches,  which  stretched  their  white 
canvas  in  April,  now  bear  up  a  spire  of  bloody 
tongues,  that  lie  against  the  leafless  woods  like  a  tree 
on  fire  ! 

Autumn  brings  to  the  home  the  cheerful  glow  of 
"  first  fires."  It  withdraws  the  thoughts  from  the  wide 
and  joyous  landscape  of  summer,  and  fixes  them  upon 
those  objects  which  bloom  and  rejoice  within  the  house- 
hold. The  old  hearth,  that  has  rioted  the  summer 
through  with  boughs  and  blossoms,  gives  up  its  with- 
ered tenantry.  The  fire-dogs  gleam  kindly  upon  the 
evening  hours  ;  and  the  blaze  wakens  those  sweet 
hopes  and  prayers  which  cluster  around  the  fireside  of 
home. 

The  wantoning  and  the  riot  of  the  season  gone  are 
softened  in  memory,  and  supply  joys  to  the  season  to 
come, — just  as  youth's  audacity  and  pride  give  a  glow 
to  the  recollections  of  our  manhood. 

At  mid-day  the  air  is  mild  and  soft ;  a  warm,  blue 
smoke  lies  in  the  mountain  gaps ;  the  tracery  of  dis- 
tant woods  upon  the  upland  hangs  in  the  haze  with  a 
dreamy  gorgeousness  of  coloring.  The  river  runs  low 
with  August  drought,  and  frets  upon  the  pebbly  bottom 
with  a  soft,  low  murmur,  as  of  joyousness  gone  by.  The 
hemlocks  of  the  river-bank  rise  in  tapering  sheens,  and 
tell  tales  of  Spring. 


AUTUMN.  183 

As  the  sun  sinks,  doubling  his  disk  in  the  October 
smoke,  the  low  south-whid  creeps  over  the  withered 
tree-tops,  and  drips  the  leaves  upon  the  land.  The  win- 
dows, that  were  wide  open  at  noon,  are  closed ;  and  a 
bright  blaze  —  to  drive  oflf  the  easterly  dampness  that 
promises  a  storm  —  flashes  lightly  and  kindly  over  the 
book-shelves  and  busts  upon  my  wall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  lower  and  lower,  his  red  beams  die 
in  a  sea  of  great  gray  clouds.  Slowly  and  quietly  they 
creep  up  over  the  night-sky.  Venus  is  shrouded.  The 
western  stars  blink  faintly,  then  fade  in  the  mounting 
vapors.  The  vane  points  east  of  south.  The  constel- 
lations in  the  zenith  struggle  to  be  seen,  but  presently 
give  over,  and  hide  their  shining. 

By  late  lamp-light  the  sky  is  all  gray  and  dark ;  the 
vane  has  turned  two  points  nearer  east.  The  clouds 
spit  fine  rain-drops,  that  you  only  feel  with  your  face 
turned  to  the  heavens.  But  soon  they  grow  thicker 
and  heavier  ;  and  as  I  sit,  watching  the  blaze,  and  — • 
dreaming — they  patter  thick  and  fast  under  the  driv- 
ing wind  upon  the  window,  like  the  swift  tread  of  an 
army  of  Men ! 


Pride  of  Manliness, 

AND  has  manhood  no  dreams?  Does  the  soul 
wither  at  that  Rubicon  which  lies  between  the 
Gallic  country  of  youth  and  the  Rome  of  manliness  ? 
Does  not  fancy  still  love  to  cheat  the  heart,  and  weave 
gorgeous  tissues  to  hang  upon  that  horizon  which  lies 
along  the  years  that  are  to  come  ?  Is  happiness  so 
exhausted  that  no  new  forms  of  it  lie  in  the  mines  of 
imagination,  for  busy  hopes  to  drag  up  to  day  ? 

Where  then  would  live  the  motives  to  an  upward 
looking  of  the  eye  and  of  the  soul ;  where  the  beckon- 
ings  that  bid  us  ever  onward  ? 

But  these  later  dreams  are  not  the  dreams  of  fond 
boyhood,  whose  eye  sees  rarely  below  the  surface  of 
things ;  nor  yet  the  delicious  hopes  of  sparkling-blooded 
youth :  they  are  dreams  of  sober  trustfulness,  of  practi- 
cal results,  of  hard-wrought  world-success,  and,  maybe, 
of  Love  and  of  Joy. 

Ambitious  forays  do  not  rest  where  they  rested  once : 
hitherto  the  balance  of  youth  has  given  you,  in  all  that 
you  have  dreamed  of  accomplishment,  a  strong  vantage 


PRIDE    OF  MANLINESS.  185 

against  age ;  hitherto  in  all  your  estimates  you  have 
been  able  to  multiply  them  by  that  access  of  thought 
and  of  strength  which  manhood  would  bring  to  you. 
Now  this  is  forever  ended. 

There  is  a  great  meaning  in  that  word  —  manhood. 
It  covers  all  human  growth.  It  supposes  no  extensions 
or  increase  ;  it  is  integral,  fixed,  perfect,  —  the  whole. 
There  is  no  getting  beyond  manhood  ;  it  is  much  to 
live  up  to  it ;  but  once  reached,  you  are  all  that  a  man 
was  made  to  be  in  this  world. 

It  is  a  strong  thought  —  that  a  man  is  perfected,  so 
far  as  strength  goes ;  that  he  will  never  be  abler  to  do 
his  work  than  under  the  very  sun  which  is  now  shining 
on  him.  There  is  a  seriousness  that  few  call  to  mind 
in  the  reflection  that  whatever  you  do  in  this  age  of 
manhood  is  an  unalterable  type  of  your  whole  bigness. 
You  may  qualify  particulars  of  your  character  by  re- 
finements, by  special  studies,  and  practice ;  but,  once  a 
man,  and  there  is  no  more  manliness  to  be  lived  for ! 

This  thought  kindles  your  soul  to  new  and  swifter 
dreams  of  ambition  than  belonged  to  youth.  They  were 
toys ;  these  are  weapons.  They  were  fancies  ;  these 
are  motives.  The  soul  begins  to  struggle  with  the  dust, 
the  sloth,  the  circumstance,  that  beleaguer  humanity, 
and  to  stagger  into  the  van  of  action. 

Perception,  whose  limits  lay  along  a  narrow  horizon, 
now  tops  that  horizon,  and  spreads,  and  reaches  toward 


186  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  heaven  of  the  Infinite.  The  mind  feels  its  birth, 
and  struggles  toward  the  great  birth-master.  The  heart 
glows ;  its  humanities  even  yield  and  crimple  under  the 
fierce  heat  of  mental  jjride.  Vows  leap  upward,  and 
pile  rampart  upon  rampart  to  scale  all  the  degrees  of 
human  power. 

Are  there  not  times  in  every  man's  life  when  there 
flashes  on  him  a  feeling  —  nay,  more,  an  absolute  con- 
viction—  that  this  soul  is  but  a  spark  belonging  to  some 
upper  fire  ;  and  that,  by  as  much  as  we  draw  near  by 
effort,  by  resolve,  by  intensity  of  endeavor,  to  that  up- 
per fire,  by  so  much  we  draw  nearer  to  our  home, 
and  mate  ourselves  with  aijgels  ?  Is  there  not  a  ring- 
ing desire  in  many  minds  to  seize  hold  of  what  floats 
above  us  in  the  universe  of  thought,  and  drag  down 
what  shreds  we  can  to  scatter  to  the  world  ?  Is  it  not 
belonging  to  greatness  to  catch  lightning  from  the 
plains  where  lightning  lives,  and  curb  it  for  the  hand- 
ling of  men  ? 

Resolve  is  what  makes  a  man  manliest ;  —  not  puny 
resolve,  not  crude  determination,  not  errant  purpose, 
but  that  strong  and  indefatigable  will  which  treads 
down  difficulties  and  danger  as  a  boy  treads  down  the 
heaving  frost-lands  of  winter,  —  which  kindles  his  eye 
and  brain  with  a  proud  pulse -beat  toward  the  unat- 
tainable. Will  makes  men  giants.  It  made  Napoleon 
an   emperor   of  kings,  Bacon   a  fathomer   of  nature^ 


PRIDE   OF  MANLINESS.  187 

Byron  a  tutor  of  passion,  and  the  martyrs  masters  of 
Death ! 

In  this  age  of  manhood  you  look  back  upon  the 
dreams  of  the  years  that  are  past:  they  glide  to  the 
vision  in  pompous  procession  ;  they  seem  bloated  with 
infancy.  They  are  without  sinew  or  bone.  They  do 
not  bear  the  hard  touches  of  the  man's  hand. 

It  is  not  long,  to  be  sure,  since  the  summer  of  life 
ended  with  that  broken  hope  ;  but  the  few  years  that 
lie  between  have  given  long  steps  upward.  The  little 
grief  that  threw  its  shadow,  and  the  broken  vision 
that  deluded  you,  have  made  the  passing  years  long  in 
such  feeling  as  ripens  manhood.  Nothing  lays  the 
brown  of  autunm  upon  the  green  of  summer  so  quick 
as  storms. 

There  have  been  changes  too  in  the  home  scenes ; 
these  graft  age  upon  a  man.  Nelly  —  your  sweet  Nelly 
of  childhood,  your  affectionate  sister  of  youth  —  has 
grown  out  of  the  old  brotherly  companionship  into  the 
new  dignity  of  a  household. 

The  fire  flames  and  flashes  upon  the  accustomed 
hearth.  The  father's  chair  is  there  in  the  wonted 
corner ;  he  himself —  we  must  call  him  the  old  man 
now,  though  his  head  shows  few  white  honors  —  wears 
a  calmness  and  a  trust  that  light  the  failing  eye.  Nelly 
is  not  away ;  Nelly  is  a  wife  ;  and  the  husband  yonder, 
as  you  may  have  dreamed,  —  your  old  friend  Frank. 


188  DREAM-LIFE. 

Her  eye  is  joyous  ;  her  kindness  to  you  is  unabated ; 
her  care  for  you  is  quicker  and  wiser.  But  yet  the 
old  unity  of  the  household  seems  broken ;  nor  can  all 
her  winning  attentions  bring  back  the  feeling  which 
lived  in  Spring  under  the  garret-roof. 

The  isolation,  the  unity,  the  integrity  of  manhood 
make  a  strong  prop  for  the  mind,  but  a  weak  one  for 
the  heart.  Dignity  can  but  poorly  fill  up  that  chasm 
of  the  soul  which  the  home  affections  once  occupied. 
Life's  duties  and  honors  press  hard  upon  the  bosom 
that  once  throbbed  at  a  mother's  tones,  and  that 
bounded  in  a  mother's  smiles. 

In  such  home,  the  strength  you  boast  of  seems  a 
weakness ;  manhood  leans  into  childish  memories,  and 
melts  —  as  Autumn  frosts  yield  to  a  soft  south-wind 
coming  from  a  Tropic  spring.  You  feel  in  a  desert, 
where  you  once  felt  at  home,  —  in  a  bounded  landscape, 
that  was  once  the  world  ! 

The  tall  sycamores  have  dwindled  to  paltry  trees; 
the  hills  that  were  so  large,  and  lay  at  such  grand 
distance  to  the  eye  of  childhood,  are  now  near  by,  and 
have  fallen  away  to  mere  rolling  waves  of  upland. 
The  garden-fence,  that  was  so  gigantic,  is  now  only  a 
simple  paling  ;  its  gate  that  was  such  a  cumbrous  affair 
—  reminding  you  of  Gaza  —  you  might  easily  lift  from 
its  hinges.  The  lofly  dove-cote,  which  seemed  to  rise 
like  a  monument  of  art  before  your  boyish  vision,  is 
now  only  a  flimsy  box  upon  a  tall  spar  of  hemlock. 


PRIDE   OF  MANLINESS.  189 

The  garret  even,  with  its  lofty  beams,  its  dark  stains, 
and  its  obscure  corners,  where  the  white  hats  and  coats 
hung  ghost-like,  is  but  a  low  loft  darkened  by  age,  — 
hung  over  with  cobwebs,  dimly  lighted  with  foul  win- 
dows, —  its  romping  Charlie  —  its  glee  —  its  swing  — 
its  joy  —  its  mystery  —  all  gone  forever. 

The  old  gallipots  and  retorts  are  not  anywhere  to  be 
seen  in  the  second-story  window  of  the  brick  school- 
house.  Dr.  Bidlow  is  no  more  !  The  trees  that  seemed 
so  large,  the  gymnastic  feats  that  were  so  extraordinary, 
the  boy  that  made  a  snapper  of  his  handkerchief, — 
have  all  lost  their  greatness  and  their  dread.  Even 
the  springy  usher,  who  dressed  his  hair  with  the  ferule, 
has  become  the  middle-aged  father  of  five  curly-headed 
boys,  and  has  entered  upon  what  once  seemed  the  gigan- 
tic commerce  of  "  stationery  and  account-books." 

The  marvellous  labyrinth  of  closets  at  the  old  man- 
sion where  you  once  paid  a  visit  —  in  a  coach . —  is  all 
dissipated.  They  have  turned  out  to  be  the  merest 
cupboards  in  the  wall.  Nat,  who  had  travelled  and 
seen  London,  is  by  no  means  so  surprising  a  fellow  to 
your  manhood  as  he  was  to  the  boy.  He  has  grown 
spare,  and  wears  spectacles.  He  is  not  so  famous  as  he 
was.  You  would  hardly  think  of  consulting  him  now 
about  your  marriage,  or  even  about  the  price  of  goats 
upon  London  Bridge. 

As  for  Jenny,  —  your  first,  fond  flame  !  —  lively,  ro- 


190  DREAM-LIFE. 

mantic,  black-eyed  Jenny,  —  the  reader  of  "  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw," — who  sighed  and  wore  blue  ribbons  on  her 
bonnet,— who  wrote  love-notes, —  who  talked  so  tenderly 
of  broken  hearts,  —  who  used  a  glass  seal  with  a  Cupid 
and  a  dart,  —  dear  Jenny  !  —  she  is  now  the  plump  and 
thriving  wife  of  the  apothecary  of  the  town !  She 
sweeps  out  every  morning  at  seven  the  little  entry  of 
the  apothecary's  house;  she  buys  a  "joint"  twice  a 
week  from  the  butcher,  and  is  particular  to  have  the 
"  knuckle  "  thrown  in  for  soups ;  she  wears  a  sky-blue 
calico  gown,  and  dresses  her  hair  in  three  little  flat 
quirls  on  either  side  of  her  head,  each  one  pierced 
through  with  a  two-pronged  hair-pin. 

She  does  not  read  "  Thaddeus  of  "Warsaw  "  now. 


n. 

Man  of  the  World. 

TTIEW  persons  live  through  the  first  periods  of  man- 
-*~-  hood  without  strong  temptations  to  be  counted 
"men  of  the  world."  The  idea  looms  grandly  among 
those  vanities  that  hedge  a  man's  approach  to  maturity. 

Clarence  is  in  good  training  for  the  acceptance  of 
this  idea.  The  broken  hope,  which  clouded  his  closing 
youth,  shoots  over  its  influence  upon  the  dawn  of 
manhood.  Mortified  pride  had  taught  —  as  it  always 
teaches  ^—  not  caution  only,  but  doubt,  distrust,  indiffer- 
ence. A  new  pride  grows  up  on  the  ruins  of  the  old, 
weak,  and  vain  pride  of  youth.  Then  it  was  a  pride 
of  learning,  or  of  affection ;  now  it  is  a  pride  of  indif- 
ference. Then  the  world  proved  bleak  and  cold,  as 
contrasted  with  his  shining  dreams ;  and  now  he  accepts 
the  proof,  and  wins  from  it  what  he  can. 

The  man  of  the  world  puts  on  the  method  and 
measure  of  the  world :  he  studies  its  humors.  He 
gives  up  the  boyish  notion  of  a  sincerity  among  men 
like  that  of  youth :  he  lives  to  seem.  He  conquers 
such  annoyances  as  the  world  may  thrust  upon  him,  in 


192  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  shape  of  grief  or  losses,  like  a  practical  athlete  of 
the  ring.     Pie  studies  moral  sparring. 

With  somewhat  of  this  strange  vanity  growing  on 
you,  you  do  not  suffer  the  heart  to  wake  into  life  except 
in  such  fanciful  dreams  as  tempt  you  back  to  the  sunny 
slopes  of  childhood. 

In  this  mood  you  fall  in  with  Dalton,  who  has  just 
returned  from  a  year  passed  in  the  French  capital. 
There  is  an  easy  suavity  and  graceful  indifference  in 
his  manner  that  chimes  admirably  with  your  humor. 
He  is  gracious,  without  needing  to  be  kind.  He  is  a 
friend,  without  any  challenge  or  proffer  of  sincerity. 
He  is  just  one  of  those  adepts  in  world  tactics  which 
match  him  with  all  men,  but  which  link  him  to  none. 
He  has  made  it  his  art  to  be  desired  and  admired,  but 
rarely  to  be  trusted.  You  could  not  have  a  better 
teacher ! 

Under  such  instruction  you  become  disgusted  for  the 
time  with  any  effort,  or  pulse  of  affection,  which  does 
not  have  immediate  and  practical  bearing  upon  that 
success  in  life  by  which  you  measure  your  hopes.  The 
dreams  of  love,  of  romantic  adventure,  of  placid  joy, 
have  all  gone  out  with  the  fantastic  images  to  which 
your  passionate  youth  had  joined  them.  The  world  is 
now  regarded  as  a  tournament,  where  the  gladiator- 
ship  of  life  is  to  be  exhibited  at  your  best  endeavor. 
Its  honors  and  joys  lie  in  a  brilliant  pennon  and  a 
plaudit. 


MAN  OF   THE    WORLD.    .  193 

Dalton  is  learned  in  those  arts  which  make  of  action, 
not  a  duty,  but  a  conquest ;  and  sense  of  duty  has 
exjiired  in  you  with  those  romantic  liopes  to  which 
you  bound  it,  not  as  much  through  sympathy  as  igno- 
rance. It  is  a  cold  and  a  bitterly  selfish  work  that  lies 
before  you,  —  to  be  covered  over  with  such  borrowed 
show  of  smiles  as  men  call  affability.  The  heart  wears 
a  stout,  brazen  screen ;  its  inclinations  grow  to  the 
habit  of  your  ambitious  projects. 

In  such  mood  come  swifl  dreams  of  wealth,  —  not 
of  mere  accumulation,  but  of  the  splendor  and  parade 
which  in  our  Western  world  are,  alas  !  its  chiefest  at  trac- 
tions. You  grow  observant  of  markets,  and  estimate 
percentages.  You  fondle  some  speculation  in  your 
thought,  until  it  grows  into  a  gigantic  scheme  of  profit ; 
and  if  the  venture  prove  successful,  you  follow  the 
tide  tremulously,  until  some  sudden  reverse  throws 
you  back  upon  the  resources  of  your  professional  em- 
ploy. 

But  again  as  you  see  this  and  that  one  wearing  the 
blazonry  which  wealth  wins,  and  which  the  man  of  the 
world  is  sure  to  covet,  —  your  weak  soul  glows  again 
with  the  impassioned  desire,  and  you  hunger,  with 
brute  appetite  and  bestial  eye,  for  riches.  You  see 
the  mania  around  you,  and  it  is  relieved  of  odium  by 
the  community  of  error.  You  consult  some  gray  old 
veteran  in  the  war  of  gold,  scarred  with  wounds,  and 


194  DREAM-LIFE. 

crowned  with  honors,  and  watch  eagerly  for  the  words 
and  the  ways  which  liave  won  him  wealth. 

Your  fingers  tingle  with  mad  expectancies ;  your 
eyes  roam,  lost  in  estimates.  Your  note-book  shows 
long  lines  of  figures.  Your  reading  of  the  news  centres 
in  the  stock-list.  Your  brow  grows  cramped  with  the 
fever  of  anxiety.  Through  whole  church-hours  your 
di-eams  range  over  the  shadowy  transactions  of  the 
week  or  the  month  to  come. 

Even  with  old  religious  habit  clinging  fast  to  your 
soul,  you  dream  now  only  of  nice  conformity,  comfort- 
able faith,  high  respectability  ;  there  lies  very  little  in 
you  of  that  noble  consciousness  of  Duty  performed,  — 
of  living  up  to  the  Life  that  is  in  you,  —  of  grasping 
boldly  and  stoutly  at  those  chains  of  Love  which  the 
Lifinite  Power  has  lowered  to  oxu*  reach.  You  do  not 
dream  of  being,  but  of  seeming.  You  spill  the  real 
essence,  and  clutch  at  the  vial  which  has  only  a  label 
of  Truth.  Great  and  holy  thoughts  of  the  Future,  — 
.shadowy,  yet  bold  conceptions  of  the  Infinite,  —  float 
past  you  dimly,  and  your  hold  is  never  strong  enough 
to  grapple  them  to  you.  They  fly,  like  eagles,  too  near 
the  sun  ;  and  there  lies  game  below  for  your  vulture 
beak  to  feed  upon. 

[Great  thoughts  belong  only  and  truly  to  him  whose 
mind  can  hold  them.  No  matter  who  first  puts  them 
in  words,  if  they  come  to  a  soul  and  fill  it,  they  belong 


MAN  OF   THE    WORLD.  195 

to  it,  —  whether  they  floated  on  the  voice  of  others,  or 
on  the  wings  of  silence  and  the  night.] 

To  be  up  with  the  fashion  of  the  time,  to  be  ignorant 
of  plain  things  and  people,  and  to  be  knowing  in  brill- 
iancies, is  a  kind  of  Pelhamism  that  is  very  apt  to 
overtake  one  in  the  first  blush  of  manhood.  To  hold 
a  fair  place  in  the  after-dinner  table-talk,  to  meet  dis- 
tinction as  a  familiarity,  to  wear  salo7i  honors  with 
aplomb,  to  know  affection  so  far  as  to  wield  it  into 
grace  of  language,  are  all  splendid  achievements  with 
a  man  of  the  world.  Instruction  is  caught  without 
askingf  it ;  and  no  ignorance  so  shames  as  ignorance 
of  those  forms  by  which  natural  impulse  is  subdued 
to  the  tone  of  civilian  habit.  You  conceal  what  tells 
of  the  man,  and  cover  it  with  what  smacks  of  the 
roue. 

Perhaps  under  such  training,  and  with  a  slight 
memory  of  early  mortification  to  point  your  spirit,  you 
affect  those  gallantries  of  heart  and  action  which  the 
world  calls  flirtation.  You  may  study  brilliancies  of 
speech  to  wrap  their  net  around  those  susceptible 
hearts  whose  habit  is  too  naive  by  nature  to  wear  the 
leaden  covering  of  custom.  You  win  approaches  by 
artful  counterfeit  of  earnestness,  and  dash  away  any 
naivete  of  confidence  wnth  some  brave  sophism  of  the 
world.  A  doubt  or  a  distrust  piques  your  pride,  and 
makes  attentions  wear  a  humility  that  wins  anew.     An 


196  DREAM-LIFE. 

indiiference  piques  you  more,  and  throws  into  your  art 
a  counter-indifference,  —  lit  up  by  bold  flashes  of  feel- 
ing, —  sparkling  with  careless  brilliancies,  and  crowned 
with  a  triumph  of  neglect. 

It  is  curious  how  ingeniously  a  man's  vanity  will 
frame  apologies  for  3uch  action.  —  It  is  pleasant  to  give 
pleasure  ;  you  like  to  see  a  joyous  sparkle  of  the  eye, 
whether  lit  up  by  your  presence  or  by  some  buoyant 
fancy.  It  is  a  beguiling  task  to  weave  words  into  some 
soft,  melodious  flow,  that  shall  keep  the  ear  and  kindle 
the  eye ;  and  to  strew  it  over  with  half-hidden  praises, 
so  deftly  couched  in  double  terms  that  their  aroma 
shall  only  come  to  the  heart  hours  afterward,  and  seem 
to  be  the  merest  accidents  of  truth.  It  is  a  happy  art 
to  make  such  subdued  show  of  emotion  as  seems  to 
struggle  with  pride,  and  to  flush  the  eye  with  a  moisture, 
of  which  you  seem  ashamed,  and  yet  are  proud.  It  is 
a  pretty  practice  to  throw  an  earnestness  into  look  and 
gesture,  that  shall  seem  full  of  pleading,  and  yet  —  ask 
nothing ! 

And  yet  it  is  hard  to  admire  greatly  the  reputation 
of  that  man  who  builds  his  triumphs  upon  womanly 
weakness ;  that  distinction  is  not  over-enduring  whose 
chiefest  merit  springs  out  of  the  delusions  of  a  too 
trustful  heart.  The  man,  who  wins  it,  wins  only  a  poor 
sort  of  womanly  distinction.  Without  power  to  cope 
with  men,  he  triumphs  over  the  weakness  of  the  other 


MAN  OF   THE    WORLD.  197 

sex  only  by  hypocrisy.  He  wears  none  of  the  armor 
of  Romans,  and  he  parleys  with  Pmiic  faith. 

Yet  even  now  there  is  a  lurking  goodness  in 

you  that  traces  its  beginning  to  the  old  garret-home,  — 
there  is  an  air  in  the  harvest  heats  that  whispers  of  the 
bloom  of  spring. 

And  over  your  brilliant  career  as  man  of  the  world, 
however  lit  up  by  a  morbid  vanity,  or  galvanized  by  a 
lascivious  passion,  there  will  come  at  times  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  better  heart,  struggling  beneath  your 
cankered  action,  —  like  the  low  Vesuvian  fire,  reeking 
vainly  under  rough  beds  of  tufa  and  scoriated  lava. 
And  as  you  smile  in  loge  or  scdon,  with  daring  smiles, 
or  press  with  villain  fondness  the  hand  of  those  lady- 
votaries  of  the  same  god  you  serve,  there  will  gleam 
upon  you  over  the  waste  of  rolling  years  a  memory 
that  quickens  again  the  nobler  and  bolder  instincts  of 
the  heart. 

Childish  recollections,  with  their  purity  and  earnest- 
ness, —  a  sister's  love,  —  a  mother's  solicitude,  will  flood 
your  soul  once  more  with  a  gushing  sensibility  that 
yearns  for  enjoyment.  And  the  consciousness  of  some 
lingering  nobility  of  affection,  that  can  only  grow  great 
in  mating  itself  with  nobility  of  heart,  will  sweep  off 
your  puny  triumphs,  your  Platonic  friendships,  your 
dashing  coquetries,  like  the  foul  smoke  of  a  city  before 
a  fresh  breeze  of  the  country  autumn. 


ni. 

Manly   Hope. 

"\T"OU  are  at  home  again;  not  your  own  home, — that 
-*-  is  gone, —  bnt  at  the  home  of  Nelly  and  of  Frank. 
The  city  heats  of  summer  drive  you  to  the  country. 
You  ramble,  with  a  little  kindling  of  old  desires  and 
memories,  over  the  hill-sides  that  once  bounded  your 
boyish  vision.  Here  you  netted  the  wild  rabbits,  as 
they  came  out  at  dusk  to  feed ;  there,  upon  that  tall 
chestnut,  you  cruelly  maimed  your  first  captive  squirrel. 
The  old  maples  are  even  now  scarred  with  the  rude 
cuts  you  gave  them  in  sappy  March. 

You  sit  down  upon  some  height  overlooking  the  val- 
ley where  you  were  born  ;  you  trace  the  faint,  silvery 
line  of  river ;  you  detect  by  the  leaning  elm  your  old 
bathing-place  upon  the  Saturdays  of  Summer.  Your 
eye  dwells  upon  some  patches  of  pasture-wood  which 
were  famous  for  their  nuts.  Your  rambling  and  sad- 
dened vision  roams  over  the  houses ;  it  traces  the  fa- 
miliar chimney-stacks ;  it  searches  out  the  low-lying 
cottages  ;  it  dwells  upon  the  gray  roof  sleeping  yonder 
ander  the  sycam.ores. 


MANLY  HOPE.  199 

Tears  swell  in  your  eye  as  you  gaze ;  you  cannot  tell 
whence  or  why  they  come.  Yet  they  are  tears  eloquent 
of  feeling.  They  speak  of  brother-children,  —  of  boy- 
ish glee,  —  of  the  flush  of  young  health, —  of  a  moth- 
er's devotion,  —  of  the  home  affections,  —  of  the  vani- 
ties of  life, —  of  the  wasting  years,  —  of  the  Death  that 
must  shroud  what  friends  remain,  as  it  has  shrouded 
what  friends  have  gone,  —  and  of  that  Great  Hope, 
beaming  on  your  seared  manhood  dimly  from  the  upper 
world ! 

Your  wealth  suffices  for  all  the  luxuries  of  life ;  there 
is  no  fear  of  coming  want ;  health  beats  strong  in  your 
veins ;  you  have  learned  to  hold  a  place  in  the  world 
with  a  man's  strength,  and  a  man's  confidence.  And 
yet  in  the  view  of  those  sweet  scenes  which  belonged 
to  early  days,  when  neither  strength,  confidence,  nor 
wealth  were  yours, —  days  never  to  come  again,  —  a 
shade  of  melancholy  broods  upon  your  spirit,  and  cov- 
ers with  its  veil  all  that  fierce  pride  which  your  worldly 
wisdom  has  wrought. 

You  visit  again  with  Frank  the  country  homestead 
of  his  grandfather :  he  is  dead ;  but  the  old  lady  still 
lives ;  and  blind  Fanny,  now  drawing  toward  woman- 
hood, wears  yet  through  her  darkened  life  the  same  air 
of  placid  content,  and  of  sweet  trustfulness  in  Heaven. 
The  boys,  whom  you  astounded  with  your  stories  of 
books,  are  gone,  building  up  now  with  steady  industry 


200  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  queen  cities  of  our  new  western  land.  The  old 
clergyman  is  gone  from  the  desk,  and  from  under  his 
sounding  board ;  he  sleeps  beneath  a  brown  stone  slab 
in  the  church-yard.  The  stout  deacon  is  dead  ;  his  wig 
and  his  wickedness  rest  together.  The  tall  chorister 
sings  yet ;  but  they  have  now  a  bass-viol  —  handled  by 
a  new  schoolmaster  —  in  place  of  his  tuning-fork  ;  and 
the  years  have  sown  feeble  quavers  in  his  voice. 

Once  more  you  meet  at  the  home  of  Nelly  the  blue- 
eyed  Madge.  The  sixpence  is  all  forgotten  ;  you  can- 
not tell  where  your  half  of  it  is  gone.  Yet  she  is  beau- 
tiful, just  budding  into  the  full  ripeness  of  womanhood. 
Her  eyes  have  a  quiet,  still  joy,  and  hope  beaming  in 
them,  like  angel's  looks.  Her  motions  have  a  native 
grace  and  freedom  that  no  culture  can  bestow.  Her 
words  have  a  gentle  earnestness  and  honesty  that  could 
never  nurture  guile. 

You  had  thought  after  your  gay  experiences  of  the 
world  to  meet  her  with  a  kind  condescension,  as  an  old 
friend  of  Nelly's.  But  there  is  that  in  her  eye  which 
forbids  all  thought  of  condescension.  There  is  that  in 
her  air  which  tells  of  a  high  womanly  dignity,  which 
can  only  be  met  on  equal  ground.  Your  pride  is 
piqued.  She  has  known  —  she  must  know  your  his- 
tory ;  but  it  does  not  tame  her.  There  is  no  marked 
and  submissive  appreciation  of  your  gifts  as  a  man  of 
the  world. 


MANLY  HOPE.  201 

She  meets  your  happiest  compliments  with  a  very 
easy  incIifFerence  ;  slie  receives  your  elegant  ci\alities 
with  a  very  assured  brow.  She  neither  courts  your  so- 
ciety, nor  avoids  it.  She  does  not  seek  to  provoke  any 
special  attention.  And  only  when  your  old  self  glows 
in  some  casual  kindness  to  Nelly,  does  her  look  beam 
with  a  flush  of  sympathy. 

This  look  touches  you.  It  makes  you  ponder  on  the 
noble  heart  that  lives  in  Madge.  It  makes  you  wish  it 
were  yours.  But  that  is  gone.  The  fervor  and  the 
honesty  of  a  glowing  youth  is  swallowed  up  in  the  flash 
and  splendor  of  the  world.  A  half-regret  chases  over 
you  at  nightfall,  when  solitude  pierces  you  with  the 
swift  dart  of  gone-by  memories.  But  at  morning  the 
regret  dies  in  the  glitter  of  ambitious  purposes. 

The  summer  months  linger ;  and  still  you  linger  with 
them.  Madge  is  often  with  Nelly ;  and  Madge  is  never 
less  than  Madge.  You  venture  to  point  your  attentions 
with  a  little  more  fervor ;  but  she  meets  the  fervor  with 
no  glow.     She  knows  too  well  the  habit  of  your  life. 

Strange  feelings  come  over  you,  —  feelings  like  half- 
forgotten  memories,  —  musical,  dreamy,  doubtful.  You 
have  seen  a  hundred  faces  more  brilliant  than  that  of 
Madge  ;  you  have  pressed  a  hundred  jewelled  hands 
that  have  returned  a  half-pressure  to  yours.  You  do 
not  exactly  admire  ;  to  love  you  have  forgotten ;  you 
only  —  linger ! 

9* 


202  DREAM-LIFE. 

It  is  a  soft  autumn  evening,  and  the  harvest-moon  is 
red  and  round  over  the  eastern  skirt  of  woods.  You 
are  attending  Madge  to  that  little  cottage-home  where 
lives  that  gentle  and  doting  mother,  who,  in  the  midst 
of  comparative  poverty,  cherishes  that  refined  delicacy 
which  never  comes  to  a  child  but  by  inheritance. 

Madge  has  been  passing  the  day  with  Nelly.  Some- 
thing—  it  may  be  the  soft  autumn  air,  wafting  toward 
you  the  freshness  of  young  days  —  moves  you  to  speak 
as  you  have  not  ventured  to  speak,  as  your  vanity  has 
not  allowed  you  to  speak  before. 

"  You  remember,  INIadge,  (you  have  guarded  this  sole 
token  of  boyish  intimacy,)  our  split  sixpence  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  ;  "  it  is  a  short  word  to  speak,  and  there 
is  no  tremor  in  her  tone,  —  not  the  slightest. 

"  You  have  it  yet  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  I  have  it  somewhere  ;  "  —  no  tremor 
now ;  she  is  very  composed. 

"  That  was  a  happy  time  ; "  —  very  great  emphasis  on 
the  word  happy. 

"  Very  happy  ;  "  —  no  emphasis  anywhere. 

"  I  sometimes  wish  I  might  live  it  over  again." 

"  Yes  ?  "  —  inquiringly. 

"  There  are,  after  all,  no  pleasures  in  the  world  like 
those." 

"  No  ?  "  —  inquiringly  again. 

You  thought  you  had  learned  to  have  language  at 


MANLY  HOPE.  203 

command  ;  you  never  thought,  after  so  many  years' 
schooling  of  the  world,  that  your  pliant  tongue  would 
play  you  truant.     Yet  now  you  are  silent. 

The  moon  steals  silvery  into  the  light  flakes  of  cloud, 
and  the  air  is  soft  as  May.  The  cottage  is  in  sight. 
Again  you  risk  utterance  :  — 

"  You  must  live  very  happily  here." 
"  I  have  very  kind  friends  ; "  —  the  very  is  empha- 
sized. 

"  I  am  sure  Nelly  loves  you  very  much." 
"  Oh,  I  believe  it ! "  —  vnth  great  earnestness. 
You  are  at  the  cottage-door.  — 
"  Good  jiight,  Maggie  ;  "  —  very  feelingly. 
"  Good  night,  Clarence  ;  "  —  very  kindly  ;    and  she 
draws  her  hand  coyly,  and  half  tremulously,  from  your 
somewhat  fevered  grasp. 

You  stroll  away  dreamily,  watching  the  moon, — run- 
ning over  your  fragmentary  life,  —  half  moody,  half 
pleased,  half  hopeful. 

You  come  back  stealthily,  and  with  a  heart  throbbing 
with  a  certain  wild  sense  of  shame,  to  watch  the  light 
gleaming  in  the  cottage.  You  linger  in  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  until  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  figure 
gliding  past  the  window.  You  bear  the  image  home 
with  you.  You  are  silent  on  your  return.  You  retire 
early,  but  you  do  not  sleep  early. 

If  you  were  only  as  you  were :   if  it  were  not 


204  DREAM-LIFE. 

too  late  !  If  Madge  could  only  love  you,  as  you  know 
she  will  and  must  love  one  manly  heart,  there  would 
be  a  world  of  joy  opening  before  you.  But  it  is  too 
late! 

You  draw  out  Nelly  to  speak  of  JMadge  :  Nelly  is 
very  prudent.  "  Madge  is  a  dear  girl,"  she  says.  Does 
Nelly  even  distrust  you  ?  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  too 
much  a  man  of  the  world  ! 

You  go  back  again  to  noisy,  ambitious  life :  you  try 
to  drown  old  memories  in  its  blaze  and  its  vanities. 
Your  lot  seems  cast  beyond  all  change,  and  you  task 
yourself  with  its  noisy  fulfilment.  But  amid  the  silence 
and  the  toil  of  yom-  office-hours,  a  strange  desire  broods 
over  your  spirit,  —  a  desire  for  more  of  manliness,  — 
that  manliness  which  feels  itself  a  protector  of  loving 
and  trustful  innocence. 

You  look  around  upon  the  faces  in  which  you  have 
smiled  unmeaning  smiles :  there  is  nothing  there  to 
feed  your  dawning  desires.  You  meet  with  those  ready 
to  court  you  by  flattering  your  vanity,  by  retailing  the 
praises  of  what  you  may  do  well,  by  odious  familiarity, 
by  brazen  proffer  of  friendship,  but  you  see  in  it  only 
the  emptiness  and  the  vanity  which  you  have  studied  to 
enjoy. 

Sickness  comes  over  you,  and  binds  you  for  weary 
days  and  nights,  —  in  which  life  hovers  doubtfully,  and 
the  lips  babble  secrets  that  you  cherish.     It  is  astonish- 


MANLY  HOPE.  205 

Ing  how  disease  clips  a  man  from  the  artificialities  of 
the  world !  Lying  lonely  npon  his  bed,  moaning,  writh- 
ing, suffering,  his  soul  joins  on  to  the  universe  of  souls 
by  only  natural  bonds.  The  factitious  ties  of  wealth, 
of  place,  of  reputation,  vanish  from  his  bleared  eyes ; 
and  the  earnest  heart,  deep  under  all,  craves  only 
heartiness ! 

The  old  craving  of  the  office  silence  comes  back,  — 
not  with  the  proud  wish  only  of  being  a  protector, 
but  —  of  being  protected.  And  whatever  may  be  the 
trust  in  that  beneficent  Power  who  "  chasteneth  whom 
he  loveth,"  there  is  yet  an  earnest,  human  yearning 
toward  some  one,  whose  love  —  most,  and  whose  duty 
—  least,  would  call  her  to  your  side  ;  whose  soft  hands 
would  cool  the  fever  of  yours,  Avhose  step  would  wake 
a  throb  of  joy,  whose  voice  would  tie  you  to  life,  and 
whose  presence  would  make  the  worst  of  Death  —  an 
Adieu! 

As  you  gain  strength  once  more,  you  go  back  to 
Nelly's  home.  Her  kindness  does  not  falter ;  every 
care  and  attention  belong  to  you  there.  Again  your 
eye  rests  upon  that  figure  of  Madge,  and  upon  her  face, 
wearing  an  even  gentler  expression  as  she  sees  you 
sitting  pale  and  feeble  by  the  old  hearth-stone.  Slie 
brings  flowers  —  for  Nelly :  you  beg  Nelly  to  place 
them  upon  the  little  table  at  your  side.  It  is  as  yet  the 
only  taste  of  the  country  that  you  can  enjoy.  You  love 
those  flowers. 


206  DREAM-LIFE 

After  a  time  you  grow  strong,  and  walk  in  the  fields. 
You  linger  until  nightfall.  You  pass  by  the  cottage 
where  Madge  lives.  It  is  your  pleasantest  walk.  The 
trees  are  greenest  in  that  direction ;  the  shadows  are 
softest ;  the  flowers  are  thickest. 

It  is  strange  —  this  feeling  in  you.  It  is  not  the 
feeling  you  had  for  Laura  Dalton.  It  does  not  even 
remind  of  that.  That  was  an  impulse,  but  this  is 
growth.  That  was  strong,  but  this  is  strength.  You 
catch  sight  of  her  little  notes  to  Nelly ;  you  read  them 
over  and  over  ;  you  treasure  them ;  you  learn  them  by 
heart.  There  is  something  in  the  very  writing  that 
touches  you. 

You  bid  her  adieu  with  tones  of  kindness  that  trem- 
ble,—and  that  meet  a  half-trembling  tone  in  reply. 
She  is  very  good. 

If  it  were  not  too  late ! 


IV. 

Manly  Lmje. 

A  ND  shall  pride  yield  at  length! 

-^^    Pride  !  —  and  what  has   love  to  do  with 

pride  ?     Let  us  see  how  it  is. 

Madge  is  poor ;  she  is  humble.  You  are  rich  ;  you 
are  a  man  of  the  world ;  you  are  met  respectfully  by 
the  veterans  of  fashion  ;  you  have  gained  perhaps  a 
kind  of  brilliancy  of  position. 

Would  it  then  be  a  condescension  to  love  Madge  ? 
Dare  you  ask  yourself  such  a  question  ?  Do  you  not 
know  —  in  spite  of  your  worldliness  —  that  the  man  or 
the  woman,  who  condescends  to  love,  never  loves  in 
earnest  ? 

But  again  Madge  is  possessed  of  a  purity,  a  delicacy, 
and  a  dignity  that  lift  her  far  above  you,  —  that  make 
you  feel  your  weakness  and  your  unworthiness ;  and  it 
is  the  deep  and  the  mortifying  sense  of  this  unworthi- 
ness that  makes  you  bolster  yourself  upon  your  pride. 
You  know  that  you  do  yourself  honor  in  loving  such 
grace  and  goodness;  you  know  that  you  would  be 
honored  tenfold  more  than  you  deserve  in  being  loved 
by  so  much  grace  and  goodness. 


208  DREAM-LIFE. 

It  scarce  seems  to  you  possible  ;  it  is  a  joy  too  great 
to  be  hoped  for;  and  in  the  doubt  of  its  attainment 
your  old,  Vi'orldly  vanity  comes  in, -and  tells  you  to  — 
beware  ;  and  to  live  on  in  the  splendor  of  your  dissipa- 
tion and  in  the  lusts  of  your  selfish  habit.  Yet  still 
underneath  all  there  is  a  deep,  low,  heart-voice,  — 
quickened  from  above,  —  which  assures  you  that  you 
are  capable  of  better  things ;  that  you  are  not  wholly 
lost ;  that  a  mine  of  unstarted  tenderness  still  lies 
smouldering  in  your  soul. 

And  with  this  sense  quickening  your  better  nature, 
you  venture  the  wealth  of  your  whole  heart-life  upon 
the  hope  that  now  blazes  on  your  path. 

You  are  seated  at  your  desk,  working  with  such 

zeal  of  labor  as  your  ambitious  projects  never  could 
command.  It  is  a  letter  to  Margaret  Boyne  that  so 
tasks  your  love,  and  makes  the  veins  upon  your  forehead 
swell  with  the  earnestness  of  the  employ. 

"  Dear  Madge,  —  May  I  not  call  you  thus,  if 


only  in  memory  of  our  childish  affections ;  and  might 
I  dare  to  hope  that  a  riper  affection,  which  your  char- 
acter has  awakened,  may  permit  me  to  call  you  thus 
always  ? 

"  If  I  have  not  ventured  to  speak,  dear  Madge,  will 
you  not  believe  that  the  consciousness  of  my  own 
ill-desert  has  tied  my  tongue  ;   will  you  not  at  least 


MANLY  LOVE.  209 

give  me  credit  for  a  little  remaining  modesty  of  heart  ? 
You  know  my  life,  and  you  know  my  character,  —  what 
a  sad  jumble  of  errors  and  of  misfortunes  have  be- 
longed to  each.  You  know  the  careless  and  the  vaiu 
purposes  which  have  made  me  recreant  to  the  better 
nature  which  belonged  to  that  sunny  childhood,  when 
we  lived  and  grew  up  together.  And  will  you  not 
believe  me  when  I  say,  that  your  grace  of  character 
and  kindness  of  heart  have  drawn  me  back  from  the 
follies  in  which  I  lived,  and  quickened  new  desires 
which  I  thought  to  be  wholly  dead  ?  Can  I  indeed 
hope  that  you  will  overlook  all  that  has  gained  your 
secret  reproaches,  and  confide  in  a  heart  which  is 
made  conscious  of  better  things  by  the  love  you  have 
inspired  ? 

''  Ah,  Madge,  it  is  not  with  a  vain  show  of  words,  or 
with  any  counterfeit  of  feeling,  that  I  write  now  ;  you 
know  it  is  not ;  you  know  that  my  heart  is  leaning 
toward  you  with  the  freshness  of  its  noblest  instincts ; 
you  know  that  —  I  love  you  ! 

"  Can  I,  dare  I  hope,  that  it  is  not  spoken  in  vain  ? 
I  had  thought  in  my  pride  never  to  make  such  avowal, 
—  never  again  to  sue  for  affection ;  but  your  gentle- 
ness, your  modesty,  your  virtues  of  life  and  heart,  have 
conquered  me  !  I  am  sure  you  will  treat  me  with  the 
generosity  of  a  victor. 

"  You  know  my  weaknesses ;   I  would  not  conceal 


210  DREAM-LIFE. 

from  yoii  a  single  one,  —  even  to  win  you.  I  can  offer 
nothing  to  you  which  will  bear  comparison  in  value 
with  what  is  yours  to  bestow.  I  can  only  offer  this 
feeble  hand  of  mine  —  to  guard  you ;  and  this  jjoor 
heart  —  to  love  you ! 

"  Am  I  rash  ?  Am  I  extravagant,  in  word,  or  in 
hope  ?  Forgive  it  then,  dear  Madge,  for  the  sake  of 
our  old  childish  affection  ;  and  believe  me,  when  I  say, 
that  what  is  here  written  —  is  written  honestly  and 
tearfully.     Adieu." 

It  is  with  no  fervor  of  boyish  passion  that  you  fold 
this  letter :  it  is  with  the  trembling  hand  of  eager  and 
earnest  manhood.  They  tell  you  that  man  is  not  capa- 
ble of  love :  so  the  September  sun  is  not  capable  of 
warmth !  It  may  not  indeed  be  so  fierce  as  that  of 
July  ;  but  it  is  steadier.  It  does  not  force  great  flaunt- 
ing leaves  into  breadth  and  succulence,  but  it  matures 
whole  harvests  of  plenty  ! 

There  is  a  deep  and  earnest  soid  pervading  the  reply 
of  Madge  that  makes  it  sacred ;  it  is  full  of  delicacy, 
and  full  of  hope.  Yet  it  is  not  final.  Her  heart  lies 
intrenched  within  the  ramparts  of  Duty  and  of  Devo- 
tion. It  is  a  citadel  of  strength  in  the  middle  of  the 
city  of  her  affections.  To  win  the  way  to  it,  there 
must  be  not  only  earnestness  of  love,  but  earnestness 
of  life. 


MANLY  LOVE.  211 

Weeks  roll  by,  and  other  letters  pass  and  are  an- 
swered,—  a  glow  of  warmth  beaming  on  either  side. 

You  are  again  at  the  home  of  Nelly  ;  she  is  very 
joyous ;  she  is  the  confidante  of  Madge.  Nelly  feels, 
that  with  all  your  errors  you  have  enough  inner  good- 
ness of  heart  to  make  Madge  happy ;  and  she  feels  — 
doubly  —  that  Madge  has  such  excess  of  goodness  as 
will  cover  your  heart  with  joy.  Yet  she  tells  you  very 
little.  She  will  give  you  no  full  assurance  of  the  love 
of  Madge  ;  she  leaves  that  for  yourself  to  win. 

She  will  even  tease  you  in  her  pleasant  way,  until 
hope  almost  changes  to  despair,  and  your  brow  grows 
pale  with  the  dread  —  that  even  now  your  unworthi- 
ness  may  condemn  you. 

It  is  summer  weather ;  and  you  have  been  walking 
over  the  hills  of  home  with  Madge  and  Nelly.  Nelly 
has  found  some  excuse  to  leave  you,  —  glancing  at  you 
most  teasingly  as  she  hurries  away. 

You  are  left  sitting  with  Madge  upon  a  bank  tufted 
with  blue  violets.  You  have  been  talking  of  the  days 
of  childhood,  and  some  word  has  called  up  the  old 
chain  of  boyish  feeling,  and  joined  it  to  your  new 
hope. 

What  you  would  say  crowds  too  fast  for  utterance ; 
and  you  abandon  it.  But  you  take  from  your  pocket 
that  little,  broken  bit  of  sixpence,  —  which  you  have 
found  after  long  search,  —  and  without  a  word,  but  with 


212  DREAM-LIFE. 

a  look  that  tells  your  inmost  thought,  you  lay  it  in  the 
half-opened  hand  of  Madge. 

She  looks  at  you  with  a  slight  suffusion  of  color,  — 
seems  to  hesitate  a  moment,  —  raises  her  other  hand, 
and  draws  from  her  bosom  by  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  a 
little  locket.  She  touches  a  spring,  and  there  falls 
beside  your  relique  —  another,  that  had  once  belonged 
to  it. 

Hope  glows  now  like  the  sun. 

"  And  you  have  worn  this,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Always  !  " 

"  Dear  Madge  ! " 

"  Dear  Clarence  !  " 

And  you  pass  your  arm  now,  unchecked,  around 

that  yielding,  graceful  figure,  and  fold  her  to  your 
bosom  with  the  swift  and  blessed  assurance  that  your 
fullest  and  noblest  dream  of  love  is  won ! 


V. 

Cheer  and  Children. 

WHAT  a  glow  there  is  to  the  sun  !  What  warmth 
—  yet  it  does  not  oppress  you :  what  coohiess 
—  yet  it  is  not  too  cool.  The  birds  sing  sweetly  ;  you 
catch  yourself  watching  to  see  what  new  songsters  they 
can  be:  they  are  only  the  old  robins  and  thrushes 
yet  what  a  new  melody  is  in  their  throats  ! 

The  clouds  hang  gorgeous  shapes  upon  the  sky,  — 
shapes  they  could  hardly  ever  have  fashioned  before. 
The  grass  was  never  so  green,  the  buttercups  were 
never  so  plentiful ;  there  was  never  such  a  life  in  the 
leaves.  It  seems  as  if  the  joyousness  in  you  gave  a 
throb  to  nature  that  made  every  green  thing  buoyant. 

Faces,  too,  are  changed :  men  look  pleasantly ;  chil- 
dren are  all  charming  children ;  even  babies  look  ten- 
der and  lovable.  The  street-beggar  at  your  door  is 
suddenly  grown  into  a  Belisarius,  and  is  one  of  the 
most  deserving  heroes  of  modern  times.  Your  mind 
is  in  a  continued  ferment ;  you  glide  through  your  toil 
—  dashing  out  sparkles  of  passion  —  like  a  ship  in  the 
sea.     No  difficulty  daunts  you  :  there  is  a  kind  of  buoy- 


214  DREAM-LIFE. 

ancy  in  your  soul  tliat  rocks  over  danger  or  doubt, 
as  sea- waves  heave  calmly  and  smoothly  over  sunken 
rocks. 

You  grow  imusually  amiable  and  kind ;  you  are  ear- 
nest in  your  search  of  friends ;  you  shake  hands  with 
your  office-boy  as  if  he  were  your  second  cousin.  You 
joke  cheerfully  with  the  stout  washerwoman,  and  give 
her  a  shilling  over-change,  and  insist  upon  her  keep- 
ing it,  and  grow  quite  merry  at  the  recollection  of  it. 
You  tap  your  hackman  on  the  shoulder  very  familiarly, 
and  tell  him  he  is  a  capital  fellow  ;  and  don't  allow  him 
to  whip  his  horses,  except  when  driving  to  the  post- 
office.  You  even  ask  him  to  take  a  glass  of  beer  with 
you  upon  some  chilly  evening.  You  drink  to  the  health 
of  his  wife.  He  says  he  has  no  wife ;  whereupon  you 
think  him  a  very  miserable  man,  and  give  him  a  dol- 
lar by  way  of  consolation. 

You  think  all  the  editorials  in  the  morning  papers 
are  remarkably  well  written,  —  whether  upon  your  side, 
or  upon  the  other.  You  think  the  stock-market  has 
a  very  cheerful  look,  even  with  Erie  —  of  which  you 
are  a  large  holder  —  down  to  seventy-five.  You  won- 
der why  you  never  admired  Mrs.  Hemans  before,  or 
Stoddard,  or  any  of  the  rest. 

You  give  a  pleasant  twirl  to  your  fingers  as  you 
saunter  along  the  street,  and  say,  —  but  not  so  loud  as 
to  be  overheard,  —  "  She  is  mine  ;  she  is  mine  ! " 


CHEER   AND   CHILDREN.  215 

You  wonder  if  Frank  ever  loved  Nelly  one  half  as 
well  as  you  love  Madge.  You  feel  quite  sure  he  never 
did.  You  can  hardly  conceive  how  it  is  that  Madge 
has  not  been  seized  before  now  by  scores  of  enamored 
men,  and  borne  off,  like  the  Sabine  women  in  Roman 
history.  You  chuckle  over  your  future,  like  a  boy  who 
has  found  a  guinea  in  groping  for  sixpences.  You 
read  over  the  marriage  service,  —  thinking  of  the  time 
when  you  will  take  her  hand,  and  slip  the  ring  upon  her 
finger,  —  and  repeat,  after  the  clergyman,  "  for  richer 
—  for  poorer  ;  for  better  —  for  worse !  "  A  great  deal 
of  "  worse  "  there  will  be  about  it,  you  think  ! 

Through  all,  your  heart  cleaves  to  that  sweet  image 
of  the  beloved  Madge,  as  light  cleaves  to  day.  The 
weeks  leap  with  a  bound  ;  and  the  months  only  gi'ow 
long  when  you  approach  that  day  which  is  to  make 
her  yours.  There  are  no  flov.ers  rare  enough  to  make 
bouquets  for  her  ;  diamonds  are  too  dim  for  her  to 
wear  ;  pearls  are  tame. 

And  after  marriage  the  weeks  are  even  shorter 

than  before  :  yCu  wonder  why  on  earth  all  the  single 
men  in  the  world  do  not  rush  tunniltuously  to  the 
Altar ;  you  look  upon  them  all  as  a  travelled  man  will 
look  upon  some  conceited  Dutch  boor  who  has  never 
been  lieyond  the  limits  of  his  cal)bage-gardcn.  Mar- 
ried men,  on  the  contrary,  you  regard  as  fellow-voy- 
agers ;  and  look  upon  their  wives  —  ugly  as  they  may 
be  —  as  better  than  none. 


216  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  blush  a  little  at  first  telling  your  butcher  what 
"  your  wife  "  would  like  ;  you  bargain  with  the  grocer 
for  sugars  and  teas,  and  wonder  if  he  hnoivs  that  you 
are  a  married  man.  You  practise  your  new  Avay  of 
talk  upon  your  office-boy  :  you  tell  him  that  "  your  wife  " 
expects  you  home  to  dinner ;  and  are  astonished  that 
he  does  not  stare  to  hear  you  say  it ! 

You  wonder  if  the  people  in  the  omnibus  know  that 
INIadge  and  you  are  just  married ;  and  if  the  driver 
knows  that  the'  shilling  you  hand  to  him  is  for  "  self 
and  wife."  You  wonder  if  anybody  was  ever  so  happy 
before,  or  ever  will  be  so  hajopy  again. 

You   enter  your   name    upon    the    hotel  books   as 

"  Clarence and  Wife  "  ;  and  come  back  to  look  at 

it,  wondering  if  anybody  else  has  noticed  it,  —  and 
thinking  that  it  looks  remarkably  well.  You  cannot 
help  thinking  that  every  third  man  you  meet  in  the 
hall  wishes  he  possessed  your  wife  ;  nor  do  you  think  it 
very  sinful  in  him  to  wish  it.  You  fear  it  is  placing 
temptation  in  the  way  of  covetous  men  to  put  Madge's 
little  gaiters  outside  the  chamber-door  at  night. 

Your  home,  when  it  is  entered,  is  just  what  it  should 
be,  —  quiet,  small,  —  with  everything  she  wishes,  and 
nothing  more  than  she  wishes.  The  sun  strikes  it  in 
the  happiest  possible  way  ;  the  piano  is  the  sweetest- 
toned  in  the  world  ;  the  library  is  stocked  to  a  charm ;  — 
and  Madge,  tli  t  blessed  wife,  is  there,  adorning  and 


CHEER  AND   CHILDREN.  217 

giving  life  to  it  all.  To  think  even  of  her  possible 
death  is  a  suffering  you  class  with  the  infernal  tortures 
of  the  Inquisition.  You  grow  twin  of  heart  and  of 
purpose.  Smiles  seem  made  for  marriage  ;  and  you 
wonder  how  you  ever  wore  them  before  ! 

So  a  year  and  more  wears  off  of  mingled  home-life, 
visiting,  and  travel.  A  new  hope  and  joy  lightens 
home :  there  is  a  child  there. 

What  a  joy  to  be  a  father !  What  new  emo- 
tions crowd  the  eye  with  tears,  and  make  the  hand 
tremble  !  What  a  benevolence  radiates  from  you  to- 
ward the  nurse, —  toward  the  physician, —  toward  every- 
body !  What  a  holiness  and  sanctity  of  love  grows 
upon  your  old  devotion  to  that  wife  of  your  bosom  — 
the  mother  of  your  child ! 

The  excess  of  joy  seems  almost  to  blur  the  stories 
of  happiness  which  attach  to  heaven.  You  are  now 
joined,  as  you  were  never  joined  before,  to  the  great 
family  of  man.  Your  name  and  blood  will  live  after 
you  ;  nor  do  you  once  think  (what  father  can  ?)  but  that 
it  will  live  honorably  and  well. 

With  what  a  new  air  you  walk  the  streets !  With 
what  a  triumph  you  speak,  in  your  letter  to  Nelly,  of 
«  your  family ! "  Who,  that  has  not  felt  it,  knows  what 
it  is  to  be  "  a  man  of  family !  " 

How  weak  now  seem  all  the  imaginations  of  your 
10 


218  DREAM-LIFE. 

single  life  ;  what  bare,  dry  skeletons  of  the  reality  they 
furnished!  You  pity  the  poor  fellows  who  have  no 
wives  or  children  —  from  your  soul ;  you  count  their 
smiles  as  empty  smiles,  put  on  to  cover  the  lack  that  is 
in  them.  There  is  a  freemasonry  among  fathers  that 
they  know  nothing  of.  You  compassionate  them  deeply  ; 
you  think  them  worthy  objects  of  some  charitable  asso- 
ciation ;  you  would  cheerfully  buy  tracts  for  them,  if 
they  would  but  read  them,  —  tracts  on  marriage  and 
children. 

And  then  "  the  boy,"  —  such  a  boy ! 

There  was  a  time  when  you  thought  all- babies  very 
much  alike  ;  —  alike  ?  Is  your  boy  like  anything,  ex- 
cept the  wonderful  fellow  that  he  is  ?  Was  there  ever 
a  baby  seen,  or  even  read  of,  like  that  baby ! 

Look  at  him :   pick  him  up  in  his  long,  white 

gown  :  he  may  have  an  excess  of  color,  —  but  siich  a 
pretty  color !  he  is  a  little  pouty  about  the  mouth,  — 
but  such  a  mouth  !  His  hair  is  a  little  scant,  and  he  is 
rather  wandering  in  the  eye,  —  but,  Good  Heavens, 
what  an  eye ! 

There  was  a  time  when  you  thought  it  very  absurd 
for  fathers  to  talk  about  their  children  ;  but  it  does  not 
seem  at  all  absiuxl  now.  You  think,  on  the  contrary, 
that  your  old  friends,  who  used  to  sup  with  you  at  the 
club,  would  be  delighted  to  know  how  your  baby  is 
getting  on,  and  how  much  he  measures  around  the  calf 


CHEER  AND   CHILDREN.  219 

of  the  leg !  If  they  pay  you  a  visit,  you  are  quite  sure 
they  are  in  an  agony  to  see  Frank ;  and  you  hold  the 
little  squirming  fellow  in  your  arms,  half  conscience- 
smitten  for  provoking  them  to  such  envy  as  they  must 
be  suffering.  You  make  a  settlement  upon  the  boy 
with  a  chuckle,  —  as  if  you  were  ti'eating  yourself  to  a 
mint-julep,  instead  of  conveying  away  a  few  thousands 
of  seven  per  cents. 

Then  the  boy  develops  astonishingly.     What  a 

head, —  what  a  foot, —  what  a  voice  !  And  he  is  so  quiet 
withal,  —  never  known  to  cry,  except  under  such  provo- 
cation as  would  draw  tears  from  a  heart  of  adamant ; 
in  short,  for  the  first  six  months  he  is  never  anything 
but  gentle,  patient,  earnest,  loving,  intellectual,  and 
magnanimous.  You  are  half  afraid  that  some  of  the 
physicians  will  be  reporting  the  case,  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  instances  of  perfect  moral  and  physi- 
cal development  on  record. 

But  the  years  roll  on,  in  the  which  your  extravagant 
fancies  die  into  the  earnest  maturity  of  a  father's  love. 
You  struggle  gayly  with  the  cares  that  life  brings  to 
your  door.  You  feel  the  strength  of  three  beings  in 
your  single  arm ;  and  feel  your  heart  warming  toward 
God  and  man  with  the  added  warmth  of  two  other 
loving  and  trustful  beings. 

IIow  eagerly  you  watch  the  first  tottering  step  of 
that  boy  ;  how  you  riot  in  the  joy  and  pride  that  swell 
in  that  mother's  eyes,  as  they  follow  his  feeble,  stagger- 


220  DREAM-LIFE. 

lug  motions !  Can  God  bless  his  creatures  more  than 
he  has  blessed  that  dear  Madge  and  you  ?  Has  Heaven 
even  richer  joys  than  live  in  that  home  of  yours  ? 

By-and-by  he  speaks;  and  minds  tie  together  by 
language,  as  the  hearts  have  long  tied  by  looks.  He 
wanders  with  you  feebly,  and  with  slow,  wandering 
paces,  upon  the  verge  of  the  great  universe  of  thought. 
His  little  eye  sparkles  with  some  vague  fancy  that 
comes  upon  him  first  by  language.  Madge  teaches 
him  the  words  of  affection  and  of  thankfulness ;  and 
she  teaches  him  to  lisp  infant  prayer ;  and  by  secret 
pains  (how  could  she  be  so  secret  ?)  instructs  him  in 
some  little  phrase  of  endearment  that  she  knows  will 
touch  your  heart ;  and  then  she  watches  your  coming  ; 
and  the  little  fellow  runs  toward  you,  and  warbles  out 
his  lesson  of  love  in  tones  that  forbid  you  any  answer, 
—  save  only  those  brimming  eyes,  turned  first  on  her, 
and  then  on  him,  —  and  poorly  concealed  by  the  quick 
embrace,  and  the  kisses  which  you  shower  in  transport ! 
Still  slip  on  the  years,  like  brimming  bowls  of  nectar ! 
Another  Madge  is  sister  to  Frank ;  and  a  little  Nelly  is 
younger  sister  to  this  other  Madge. 

Three  of  them !  a  charmed  and  mystic  num- 
ber, which,  if  it  be  broken  in  these  young  days,  —  as, 
alas,  it  may  be  !  —  will  only  yield  a  cherub  angel  to 
float  over  you,  and  to  float  over  them,  —  to  wean  you, 
and  to  wean  them,  from  this  world,  where  all  joys  do 
perish,  to  that  seraph  world  where  joys  do  last  forever  I 


VI. 

A  Dream  of  Darhiess. 

IS  our  life  a  sun,  that  it  should  radiate  light  and  heat 
forever?  Do  not  the  calmest  and  brightest  days 
of  autumn  show  clouds,  that  drift  their  ragged  edges 
over  the  golden  disk,  and  bear  down  swift  with  their 
weight  of  vapors,  until  the  sun's  whole  surface  is 
shrouded  ;  and  you  can  see  no  shadow  of  tree  or  flower 
upon  the  land,  because  of  the  greater  and  gulping 
shadow  of  the  cloud  ? 

Will  not  life  bear  me  out ;  will  not  truth,  earnest  and 
stem,  around  me  make  good  the  terrible  imagination 
that  now  comes  swooping,  heavily  and  darkly,  upon  my 
brain  ? 

You  are  living  in  a  little  village  not  far  away  from 
the  city.  It  is  a  graceful  and  luxurious  home  that  you 
possess.  The  holly  and  the  laurel  gladden  its  lawn  in 
winter  ;  and  bowers  of  blossoms  sweeten  it  through  all 
the  summer.  You  know  each  day  of  your  return  from 
the  town,  where  first  you  will  catch  sight  of  that  grace- 
ful figure  flitting  like  a  shadow  of  love  beneath  the 
^ees ;  you  know  well  where  you  will  meet  the  joyous 


222  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  noisy  welcome  of  stout  Frank,  and  of  tottling 
Nelly.  Day  after  day  and  week  after  week  they  fail 
not. 

A  friend  sometimes  attends  you  ;  and  a  friend  to  you 
is  always  a  friend  to  Madge.  In  the  city  you  fall  in 
once  more  with  your  old  acquaintance  Dalton, — the 
graceful,  winning,  yet  dissolute  man  that  his  youth, 
promised.  He  wishes  to  see  your  cottage  home.  Your 
heart  half  hesitates ;  yet  it  seems  folly  to  cherish  dis- 
trust of  a  boon  companion  in  so  many  of  your  revels. 

Madge  receives  him  with  that  sweet  smile  which 
welcomes  all  your  friends.  He  gains  the  heart  of  Frank 
by  talking  of  his  toys  and  of  his  pigeons  ;  and  he  wins 
upon  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  by  his  attentions  to 
the  child.  Even  you  repent  of  your  passing  shadow  of 
dislike,  and  feel  your  heart  warming  toward  him  as  he 
takes  little  Nelly  in  his  arms  and  provokes  her  joyous 
prattle. 

Madge  is  unbounded  in  her  admiration  of  your 
friend  :  he  renews,  at  your  solicitation,  his  visit :  he 
proves  kinder  than  ever ;  and  you  grow  ashamed  of 
your  distrust. 

Madge  is  not  learned  in  the  arts  of  a  city  life ;  the 
accomplishments  of  a  man-of-the  world  are  almost  new 
to  her ;  she  listens  with  eagerness  to  Dalton's  graphic 
stories  of  foreign  fetes  and  luxury  ;  she  is  charmed  with 
his  clear,  bold  voice,  and  with  his  manly  execution  of 
little  operatic  airs. 


A   DREAM    OF  DARKNESS.  223 

She  is  beautiful,  —  that  wife  who  has  made  your 

heart  whole  by  its  division,  —  fearfully  beautiful  !  And 
she  is  not  cold,  or  impassive :  her  heart,  though  fond 
and  earnest,  is  yet  human  ;  —  we  are  all  human.  The 
accomplishments  and  graces  of  the  world  must  needs 
take  hold  upon  her  fancy.  And  a  fear  creeps  over  you, 
that  you  dare  not  whisper,  —  that  those  graces  may 
cast  into  the  shade  your  own  yearning  and  silent  ten- 
derness. 

But  this  is  a  selfish  fear,  that  you  think  you  have  no 
right  to  cherish.  She  takes  pleasure  in  the  society  of 
Dalton,  —  what  right  have  you  to  say  her  —  nay  ?  His 
character  indeed  is  not  altogether  such  as  you  could 
wish ;  but  will  it  not  be  selfish  to  tell  her  even  this  ? 
Will  it  not  be  even  worse,  and  show  taint  of  a  lurking 
suspicion,  which  you  know  would  wound  her  griev- 
ously ?  You  struggle  with  your  distrust  by  meeting  him 
more  kindly  than  ever ;  yet  at  times  there  will  steal 
over  you  a  sadness,  which  that  dear  Madge  detects, 
and  sorrowing  in  her  turn,  tries  to  draw  away  from  you 
by  the  touching  kindness  of  sympathy.  Her  look  and 
manner  kill  all  your  doubt ;  and  you  show  that  it  is 
gone,  and  piously  conceal  the  cause  by  welcoming  in 
gayer  tones  than  ever  the  man  who  has  fostered  it  by 
his  presence. 

Business  calls   you    aAvay  to  a  great  distance    from 
home :  it  is  the  first  long  parting  of  your  real  manhood. 


224  DREAM-LIFE. 

And  can  suspicion,  or  a  fear,  lurk  amid  those   tearful 
embraces  ?     Not  one,  —  thank  God,  —  not  one  ! 

Your  letters,  frequent  and  earnest,  bespeak  your  in- 
creased devotion ;  and  the  embraces  you  bid  her  give  i 
to  the  sweet  ones  of  your  little  flock,  tell  of  the  calm- 
ness and  sufficiency  of  your  love.  Her  letters  too  are 
running  over  with  affection  ;  —  what  though  she  men- 
tions the  frequent  visits  of  Dalton,  and  tells  stories  of 
his  kindness  and  attachment?  You  feel  safe  in  her 
strength ;  and  yet  —  yet  there  is  a  brooding  terror, 
that  rises  out  of  your  knowledge  of  Dalton's  character. 

And  can  you  tell  her  this ;  can  you  stab  her  fondness, 
now  that  you  are  away,  with  even  a  hint  of  what  would 
ci'ush  her  delicate  nature  ? 

What  you  know  to  be  love,  and  what  you  fancy  to 
be  duty,  struggle  long ;  but  love  conquers.  And  with 
sweet  trust  in  her,  and  double  trust  in  God,  you  await 
your  return.  That  return  will  be  speedier  than  you 
think. 

You  receive  one  day  a  letter :  it  is  addressed  in  the 
hand  of  a  friend,  who  is  often  at  the  cottage,  but  who 
has  rarely  written  to  you.  What  can  have  tempted 
him  now  ?  Has  any  harm  come  near  your  home  ? 
No  wonder  your  hands  tremble  at  the  opening  of  that 
sheet;  no  wonder  that  your  eyes  run  like  lightning 
over  the  hurried  lines.  Yet  there  is  little  in  them, 
very  little.     The  hand  is  stout  and  fair.     It  is  a  calm 


A   DREAM   OF  DARKNESS  225 

letter,  a  friendly  letter ;  but  it  is  short,  terribly  short. 
It  bids  you  come  home  —  "  ai  once  !  " 

And  you  go.     It  is  a  pleasant  country  you  have 

to  travel  through ;  but  you  see  very  little  of  the  coun- 
try. It  is  a  dangerous  voyage,  perhaps,  you  have  to 
make ;  but  you  think  very  little  of  the  danger.  The 
creaking  of  the  timbers,  and  the  lashing  of  the  waves, 
are  quieting  music  compared  with  the  storm  of  your 
raging  fears.  All  the  while  you  associate  Dalton  with 
the  terror  that  seems  to  hang  over  you  ;  and  yet,  your 
trust  in  Madge  is  true  as  Heaven  ! 

At  length  you  approach  that  home  :  there  lies  your 
cottage  resting  sweetly  upon  its  hill-side ;  and  the  au- 
tumn winds  are  soft ;  and  the  maple-tops  sway  grace- 
fully, all  clothed  in  the  scarlet  of  their  frost-dress. 
Once  again  as  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  mountain  w'ith 
a  trail  of  glory,  and  the  violet  haze  tints  the  gray 
clouds  like  so  many  robes  of  angels,  you  take  heart 
and  courage,  and  with  firm  reliance  on  the  Providence 
that  fashions  all  forms  of  beauty,  whether  in  heaven 
or  in  heart,  your  fears  spread  out,  and  vanish  wnth 
the  waning  twilight. 

She  is  not  at  the  cottage-door  to  meet  you  ;  she 
does  not  expect  you  ;  and  yet  your  bosom  heaves,  and 
your  breathing  is  quick.  Your  friend  meets  you,  and 
shakes  your  hand.  —  "  Clarence,"  he  says,  with  the  ten- 
derness of  an  old  friend,  —  "be  a  man  !  " 
10* 


226  DREAM-LIFE. 

Alas,  you  are  a  man ;  —  with  a  man's  heart,  and  a 
man's  fear,  and  a  man's  agony  !  Little  Frank  comes 
bounding  toward  you  joyously — yet  under  traces  of 
tears  :  —  "  Oh,  papa,  mother  is  gone  !  " 

"  Gone  !  "     And  you   turn  to   the  face  of  your 

friend;  it  is  well  he  is  near  by,  or  you  would  have 
fallen. 

He  can  tell  you  very  little ;  he  has  known  the  char- 
acter of  Dalton  ;  he  has  seen  with  fear  his  assiduous 
attentions  —  tenfold  multiplied  since  your  leave.  He 
has  trembled  for  the  issue :  this  very  morning  he  ob- 
served a  travelling  carriage  at  the  door  ;  —  they  drove 
away  together.  You  have  no  strength  to  question  him. 
You  see  that  he  fears  the  worst :  he  does  not  know- 
Madge  so  well  as  you. 

And  can  it  be  ?     Are  you  indeed  widowed  with 

that  most  terrible  of  widowhoods  ?  Is  your  wife  liv- 
ing, and  yet  —  lost !  Talk  not  to  such  a  man  of  the 
woes  of  sickness,  of  poverty,  of  death ;  he  will  laugh 
at  your  mimicry  of  grief. 

All  is  blackness  ;  whichever  way  yo'.«  turn,  it  is 

the  same  ;  there  is  no  light ;  your  eye  is  put  out ;  your 
soul  is  desolate  forever  !  The  heart  by  which  you  had 
grown  up  into  the  full  stature  of  joy  and  blessing,  is 
rooted  out  of  you,  and  thrown  like  something  loath- 
some, at  which  the  carrion  dogs  of  the  world  scent  and 
snuffle ! 


A  DREAM   OF  DARKNESS.  227 

They  will  point  at  you,  as  the  man  who  has  lost  all 
that  he  prized ;  and  she  has  stolen  it,  whom  he  prized 
more   than   what  was  stolen  !     And  he,   the   accursed 

miscreant But  no,  it  can  never  be  !     Madge  is 

as  true  as  Heaven  ! 

Yet  she  is  not  there  :  whence  comes  the  light  that  is 
to  cheer  you  ? 

Your  children  ? 

Ay,  your  children,  —  your  little  Nelly,  —  your  noble 
Frank,  —  they  are  yours,  —  doubly,  trebly,  tenfold 
yours,  now  that  she,  their  mother,  is  a  mother  no  more 
to  them  forever ! 

Ay,  close  your  doors ;  shut  out  the  world ;  draw 
close  your  cm-tains  ;  fold  them  to  your  heart,  —  your 
crushed,  bleeding,  desolate  heart !  Lay  your  forehead 
to  the  soft  cheek  of  your  noble  boy  ;  —  beware,  beware 
how  you  dampen  that  damask  cheek  with  your  scalding 
tears :  yet  you  cannot  help  it ;  they  fall  —  great  drops 

—  a  river  of  tears,  as  you  gather  him  convulsively  to 
your  bosom ! 

"  Father,  why  do  you  cry  so  ?  "  says  Frank,  with  the 
tears  of  dreadful  sympathy  starting  from  those  eyes  of 
childhood. 

"  Why,  papa  ?  "  —  mimes  little  Nelly. 

Answer   them,  if  you   dare  !     Try   it ;  —  what 

words  —  blundering,  weak  words  —  choked  with  agony 

—  leading  nowhere  —  ending  in   new  and  convulsive 
clasps  of  your  weeping,  motherless  children  ! 


228  DREAM-LIFE. 

Had  she  gone  to  her  grave,  there  would  have  been  a 
holy  joy,  a  great  and  swelling  grief  indeed,  —  but 
your  poor  heart  would  have  found  a  rest  in  the  quiet 
churchyard  ;  and  your  feelings,  rooted  in  that  cherished 
grave,  would  have  stretched  up  toward  Heaven  their 
delicate  leaves,  and  caught  the  dews  of  His  grace,  who 
watcheth  the  lilies.  But  now,  —  with  your  heart  cast 
underfoot,  or  buffeted  on  the  lips  of  a  lying  world,  — 
finding  no  shelter  and  no  abiding  place !  —  alas,  we  do 
guess  at  infinitude  only  by  suffering  ! 

Madge,  Madge  !  can  this  be  so  ?    Are  you  not 

still  the  same  sweet,  guileless  child  of  Heaven  ? 


vn. 

Peace. 

XT  is  a  dream,  —  fearful,  to  be  sure,  but  only  a 
-*-  dream  !  Madge  is  true.  That  soul  is  honest ;  it 
could  not  be  otherwise.  God  never  made  it  to  be 
false  ;  He  never  made  the  sun  for  darkness. 

And  before  the  evening  has  waned  to  midnight, 
sweet  day  has  broken  on  your  gloom ;  —  Madge  is 
folded  to  your  bosom,  sobbing  fearfully,  —  not  for 
guilt,  or  any  shadow  of  guilt,  but  for  the  agony  she 
reads  upon  your  brow,  and  in  your  low  sighs. 

The  mystery  is  all  cleared  by  a  few  lightning  words 
from  her  indignant  lips,  and  her  whole  figure  trembles, 
as  she  shrinks  within  your  embrace,  with  the  thought 
of  that  great  evil  that  seemed  to  shadow  you.  The 
villain  has  sought  by  every  art  to  beguile  her  into 
appearances  which  should  compromise  her  character, 
and  so  wound  her  delicacy  as  to  take  away  the  courage 
for  return  ;  he  has  even  wrought  upon  her  affection  for 
you  as  his  master-weapon  :  a  skilfully  contrived  story 
of  some  accident  that  had  befallen  you,  had  wrought 


230  DREAM-LIFE. 

upon  her  —  to  the  sudden  and  silent  leave  of  home. 
But  he  has  failed.  At  the  first  suspicion  of  his  falsity, 
her  dignity  and  virtue  shivered  all  his  malice.  She 
shudders  at  the  bare  thought  of  that  fiendish  scheme 
which  has  so  lately  broken  on  her  view. 

"  Oh,  Clarence,  Clarence,  could  you  for  one  moment 
believe  this  of  me  ?  " 

"  Dear  Madge,  forgive  me  if  a  dreamy  horror  did 
for  an  instant  palsy  my  better  thought ;  —  it  is  gone 
utterly  ;  it  will  never,  never  come  again  !  " 

And  there  she  leans  with  her  head  pillowed  on  your 
shoulder,  the  same  sweet  angel  that  has  led  you  in  the 
way  of  light,  and  who  is  still  your  blessing  and  your 
pride. 

He  —  and  you  forbear  to  name  his  name  —  is  gone, 
—  flying  vainly  from  the  consciousness  of  guilt  with  the 
curse  of  Cain  upon  him,  —  hastening  toward  the  day 
when  Satan  shall  clutch  his  own  ! 

A  heavenly  peace  descends  upon  you  that  night,  — ■ 
all  the  more  sacred  and  calm  for  the  fearful  agony  that 
has  gone  before.  A  Heaven,  that  seemed  lost,  is  yours. 
A  love,  that  you  had  almost  doubted,  is  beyond  all 
suspicion.  A  heart,  that  in  the  madness  of  your  frenzy 
you  had  dared  to  question,  you  worship  now,  with 
blushes  of  shame.  You  thank  God  for  this  great  good- 
ness, as  you  never  thanked  him  for  any  earthly  blessing 
before ;   and  with  this  twin   gratitude   lying  on   your 


PEACE.  2^1 

hearts,  and  clearing  your  face  to  smiles,  you  live  on 
together  the  old  life  of  joy  and  of  affection. 

Again  with  brimming  nectar  the  years  fill  up  their 
vases.  Your  children  grow  into  the  same  earnest 
joyousness,  and  with  the  same  home  faith,  which 
lightened  upon  your  young  dreams,  and  toward  which 
you  seem  to  go  back,  as  you  riot  with  them  in  their 
Christmas  joys,  or  upon  the  velvety  lawn  of  June. 

Anxieties  indeed  overtake  you,  but  they  are  those 
anxieties  which  only  the  selfish  would  avoid,  —  anxieties 
that  better  the  heart  with  a  great  weight  of  tenderness. 
It  may  be  that  your  mischievous  Frank  runs  wild  with 
the  swift  blood  of  boyhood,  and  that  the  hours  are  long 
which  wait  his  coming.  It  may  be  that  your  heart 
echoes  in  silence  the  mother's  sobs,  as  she  watches  his 
fits  of  waywardness,  and  showers  upon  his  very  neglect 
excess  of  love. 

Danger  perhaps  creeps  upon  little,  joyous  Nelly, 
which  makes  you  tremble  for  her  life  ;  the  mother's 
tears  are  checked  that  she  may  not  deepen  your  grief; 
and  her  care  guards  the  little  sufferer  like  a  Provi- 
dence. The  nights  hang  long  and  heavy  ;  dull,  stifled 
breathing  wakes  the  chamber  with  ominous  sound ; 
the  mothei''s  eye  scarce  closes,  but  rests  with  fond  sad- 
ness upon  the  little  struggling  victim  of  sickness ;  her 
hand  rests  like   an   angel   touch  upon   the  brow,  all 


232  DREAM-LIFE. 

beaded  with  the  heats  of  fever;  the  straggling,  gray 
light  of  morning  breaks  through  the  crevices  of  the 
closed  blinds,  —  bringing  stir  and  bustle  to  the  world, 
but  in  your  home  —  lighting  only  the  darkness. 

Hope,  sinking  in  the  mother's  heart,  takes  hold  on 
Faith  in  God ;  and  her  prayer,  and  her  placid  look  of 
submission,  —  more  than  all  your  philosophy,  —  add 
strength  to  your  faltering  courage. 

But  little  Nelly  brightens ;  her  faded  features  take 
on  bloom  again ;  she  knows  you ;  she  presses  your 
hand ;  she  draws  down  your  cheek  to  her  parched  lip; 
she  kisses  you,  and  smiles.  The  mother's  brow  loses  its 
shadow ;  day  dawns  within  as  well  as  without,  and  on 
bended  knees  God  is  thanked  ! 

Perhaps  poverty  faces  you  ;  —  your  darling  schemes 
break  down.  One  by  one,  with  failing  heart,  you  strip 
the  luxuries  from  life.  But  the  sorrow  which  oppresses 
you  is  not  the  selfish  sorrow  which  the  lone  man  feels : 
it  is  far  nobler;  its  chiefest  mourning  is  over  the 
despoiled  home.  Frank  must  give  up  his  promised 
travel ;  Madge  must  lose  her  favorite  pony ;  Nelly 
must  be  denied  her  little  fete  upon  the  lawn.  The 
home  itself,  endeared  by  so  many  scenes  of  happiness 
and  by  so  many  of  suffering,  must  be  given  up.  It 
is  hard,  very  hard,  to  tear  away  your  wife  from  the 
flowers,  the  birds,  the  luxuries,  that  she  has  made  so 
dear. 


PEACE.  233 

Now  she  is  far  stronger  than  you.  She  contrives 
new  joys ;  she  wears  a  holy  calm ;  she  cheers  by  a  new 
hopefulness ;  she  buries  even  the  memory  of  luxury  in 
the  riches  of  the  humble  home  that  her  wealth  of  heart 
endows.  Her  soul,  catching  radiance  from  that  heav- 
enly world  where  her  hop®  lives,  kindles  amid  the 
growing  shadows,  and  sheds  balm  upon  the  little  griefs, 
—  like  the  serene  moon,  slanting  the  dead  sun's  life, 
upon  the  night ! 

Courage  wakes  in  the  presence  of  those  dependent 
on  your  toil.  Love  arms  your  hand  and  quickens  your 
brain.  Resolutions  break  large  from  the  swelling  soul. 
Energy  leaps  into  your  action  like  light.  Gradually 
you  bring  back  into  your  humble  home  a  few  traces  of 
the  luxury  that  once  adorned  it.  That  wife,  whom  it  is 
your  greatest  pleasure  to  win  to  smiles,  wears  a  half- 
sad  look  as  she  meets  these  proofs  of  love ;  she  fears 
that  you  are  perilling  too  much  for  her  pleasure. 

For  the  first  time  in  life  you  deceive  her.     You 

have  won  wealth  again  ;  you  now  step  firmly  upon  your 
new-gained  sandals  of  gold.  But  you  conceal  it  from 
her.  You  contrive  a  little  scheme  of  surprise,  with 
Frank  alone  in  the  secret. 

You  purchase  again  the  old  home ;  you  stock  it,  as 
far  as  may  be,  with  the  old  luxuries ;  a  new  harp  is  in 
the  place  of  that  one  which  beguiled  so  many  hours  of 
joy ;  new  and  cherished  flowers  bloom  again  upon  the 


234  DREAM-LIFE. 

windows ;  her  birds  liang,  and  warble  their  melody 
where  they  warbled  it  before.  A  pony — like  as  pos- 
sible to  the  old  —  is  there  for  Madge  ;  afete  is  secretly 
contrived  upon  the  lawn.  You  even  place  the  old, 
familiar  books  upon  the  parlor-table. 

The  birthday  of  your  "own  Madge  is   approaching, 

—  a  fete  you  never  pass  by  without  home  rejoicings. 
You  drive  over  with  her  upon  that  morning  for  an 
other  look  at  the  old  place  ;  a  cloud  touches  her  brow, 

—  but  she  yields  to  your  wish.  An  old  servant  — 
whom  you  had  known  in  better  days  —  throws  open  the 
gates. 

"  It  is  too,  too  sad,"  says  Madge.     "  Let  us  go 

back,  Clarence,  to  our  Own  home ;  —  we  are  happy 
there." 

"  A  little  farther,  Madge." 

The  wife  steps  slowly  over  what  seems  the  sepulchre 
of  so  many  pleasures  ;  the  children  gambol  as  of  old, 
and  pick  flowers.     But  the  mother  checks  them. 

"  They  are  not  ours  now,  my  children  !  " 

You  stroll  to  the  very  door ;  the  goldfinches  are 
hanging  upon  the  wall ;  the  mignonette  is  in  the  win- 
dow. You  feel  the  hand  of  Madge  trembling  upon 
your  arm  ;  she  is  struggling  with  her  weakness. 

A  tidy  waiting-woman  shows  you  into  the  old  parlor : 

—  there  is  a  harp ;  and  there,  too,  such  books  as  we 
loved  to  read. 


PEACE.  235 

Madge  is  overcome ;  now  she  entreats :  —  "  Let  us 
go  away,  Clarence ! "  and  she  hides  her  face. 

"  Never,  dear  Madge,  never  !  it  is  yours  —  all 

yours ! " 

She  looks  up  in  your  face ;  she  sees  your  look  of 
triumph ;  she  catches  sight  of  Frank  bursting  in  at  the 
old  hall-door  all  radiant  with  joy. 

"  Frank  !  —  Clarence  ! "  —  the  tears  forbid  any 

more. 

"  God  bless  you,  Madge  !     God  bless  you ! " 

And  thus  in  peace  and  in  joy  Manhood  passes  on 
into  the  third  season  of  our  life  —  even  as  golden 
Autumn  sinks  slowly  into  the  tomb  of  Winter. 


WINTER; 

OK, 

THE  DREAMS  OF  AGS. 


DREAMS   OF  AQK 


Winter. 


QLOWLY,  thickly,  fastly,  fall  the  snow-flakes,  —  like 
'^  the  seasons  upon  the  life  of  man.  At  the  first  they 
lose  themselves  in  the  brown  mat  of  herbage,  or  gently 
mel^,  as  they  fall  upon  the  broad  stepping-stone  at  the 
door.  But  as  hour  after  hour  passes,  the  feathery  flakes 
stretch  their  white  cloak  plainly  on  the  meadow,  and 
chilling  the  doorstep  with  their  multitude,  cover  it  with 
a  mat  of  pearl. 

The  dried  grass-tips  pierce  the  mantle  of  white,  like 
so  many  serried  spears ;  but  as  the  storm  goes  softly 
on,  they  sink  one  by  one  to  their  snowy  tomb,  and 
presently  show  nothing  of  all  their  army,  save  one  or 
two  straggling  banners  of  blackened  and  shrunken 
daisies. 

Across  the  wide  meadow  that  stretches  from  my 
window,  I  can  see  nothing  of  those  hills  which  were  so 
green  in  summer ;  between  me  and  them  lie  only  the 
soft,  slow-moving  masses,  filling  the  air  with  whiteness. 


240  DREAM-LIFE. 

I  catch  only  a  glimpse  of  one  gaunt  and  bare-armed 
oak,  looming  through  the  feathery  multitude  like  a  tall 
ship's  spars  breaking  through  fog. 

The  roof  of  the  barn  is  covered ;  and  the  leaking 
eaves  show  dark  stains  of  water  that  trickle  down  the 
weather-beaten  boards.  The  pear-trees,  that  wore  such 
weight  of  greenness  in  the  leafy  June,  now  stretch  their 
bare  arms  to  the  snowy  blast,  and  carry  upon  each 
tiny  bough  a  narrow  burden  of  winter. 

The  old  house-dog  marches  stately  through  the 
strange  covering  of  earth,  and  seems  to  ponder  on  the 
welcome  he  will  show,  —  and  shakes  the  flakes  from  his 
long  ears,  and  with  a  vain  snap  at  a  floating  feather  he 
stalks  again  to  his  dry  covert  in  the  shed.  The  lambs 
that  belonged  to  the  meadow  flock,  with  their  feeding- 
ground  all  covered,  seem  to  wonder  at  their  losses  ;  but 
take  courage  from  the  quiet  air  of  the  veteran  sheep, 
and  gambol  after  them,  as  they  move  sedately  toward 
the  shelter  of  the  barn. 

The  cat,  driven  from  the  kitchen-door,  beats  a  coy 
retreat,  with  long  reaches  of  her  foot,  upon  the  yielding 
surface.  The  matronly  hens  saunter  out  at  a  little 
lifting  of  the  storm,  and  eye  curiously,  with  heads  half 
turned,  their  sinking  steps,  and  then  fall  back,  with  a 
quiet  cluck  of  satisfaction,  to  the  wholesome  gravel  by 
the  stable-door. 

By-and-by  the  snow-flakes  pile  more  leisurely :  they 


WINTER.  241 

grow  large  and  scattered,  and  come  more  slowly  than 
before.  The  hills,  that  were  brown,  heave  into  sight  — 
great,  rounded  billows  of  white.  The  gray  woods  look 
shrunken  to  half  their  height,  and  stand  waving  in  the 
storm.  The  wind  freshens,  and  scatters  the  light  flakes 
that  crown  the  burden  of  the  snow  ;  and  as  the  day 
droops,  a  clear,  bright  sky  of  steel  color  cleaves  the 
land  and  clouds,  and  sends  down  a  chilling  wind  to 
bank  the  walls  and  to  freeze  the  storm.  The  moon 
rises  full  and  round,  and  plays  with  a  joyous  chill  over 
the  glistening  raiment  of  the  land. 

I  pile  my  fire  with  the  clean-cleft  hickory ;  and  mus- 
ing over  some  sweet  story  of  the  olden  time,  I  wander 
into  a  rich  realm  of  thought,  until  my  eyes  grow  dim, 
and  dreaming  of  battle  and  of  prince,  I  fall  to  sleep  in 
my  old  farm-chamber. 

At  morning  I  find  my  dreams  all  written  on  the 
window  in  crystals  of  fairy  shape.  The  cattle,  one  by 
one,  with  ears  frost-tipped,  and  with  frosted  noses,  wend 
their  way  to  the  watering-place  in  the  meadow.  One 
by  one  they  drink,  and  crop  at  the  stunted  herbage 
which  the  warm  spring  keeps  green  and  bare. 

A  hound  bays  in  the  distance ;  the  smoke  of  cot- 
tages rises  straight  toward  heaven ;  a  lazy  jingle  of 
sleigh-bells  wakens  the  quiet  of  the  high-road ;  and 
upon  the  hills  the  leafless  woods  stand  low,  like 
crouching  armies,  with  guns  and  spears  in  rest ;  and 
11 


242  DREAM-LIFE. 

among  them  the  scattered  spiral  pines  rise  like  banner- 
men,  uttering  with  their  thousand  tongues  of  green 
the  proud  war-cry  —  "  God  is  with  us  !  " 

But  the  sky  of  winter  is  as  capricious  as  the  sky  of 
spring,  even  as  the  old  wander  in  thought,  like  the 
vagaries  of  a  boy. 

Before  noon  the  heavens  are  mantled  with  a  leaden 
gray  ;  the  eaves,  that  leaked  in  the  glow  of  the  sun, 
now  tell  their  tale  of  morning's  warmth  in  crystal 
ranks  of  icicles.  The  cattle  seek  their  shelter ;  the 
few  lingering  leaves  of  the  white-oaks  rustle  dismally ; 
the  pines  breathe  sighs  of  mourning.  As  the  night 
darkens,  and  deepens  the  storm,  the  house-dog  bays ; 
the  children  crouch  in  the  wide  chimney-corners ;  the 
sleety  rain  comes  in  shaq?  gusts.  And  as  I  sit  by  the 
light  leaping  blaze  in  my  chamber,  the  scattered  hail- 
drops  beat  upon  my  window,  like  the  tappings  of  an 
Old  Man's  cane. 


I. 

What  is  Gone. 

GONE !  Did  it  ever  strike  you,  my  reader,  how  much 
meaning  lies  in  that  little  monosyllable  —  gone  ? 

Say  it  to  yourself  at  nightfall,  when  the  sun  has  sunk 
under  the  hills,  and  the  crickets  chirp,  —  "  gone."  Say 
it  to  yourself  when  the  night  is  far  over,  and  you  wake 
with  some  sudden  start  from  pleasant  dreams, — "  gone." 
Say  it  to  yourself  in  some  country  churchyard,  where 
your  father,  or  your  mother,  sleeps  under  the  blooming 
violets  of  spring,  —  "  gone."  Say  it  in  your  sobbing 
prayer  to  Heaven,  as  you  cling  lovingly,  but  oh,  how 
vainly,  to  the  hand  of  your  sweet  wife,  —  "  gone  !  " 

Ay,  is  there  not  meaning  in  it  ?  And  now,  what  is 
gone, — or  rather  what  is  not  gone  ?  Childhood  is  gone, 
with  all  its  blushes  and  fairness,  —  with  all  its  health 
and  wantoning,  —  with  all  its  smiles  like  glimpses  of 
heaven,  and  all  its  tears  which  were  but  the  suffusion 
of  joy. 

Youth  is  gone,  —  bright,  hopeful  youth,  when  you 
counted  the  years  with  jewelled  numbers,  and  hung 
lamps  of  ambition  on  your  path,  which  lighted  the  pal- 


244  DREAM-LIFE. 

ace  of  renown  ;  when  the  days  were  woven  into  weeks 
of  blithe  labor,  and  the  weeks  were  rolled  into  harvest 
months  of  triumph,  and  the  months  were  bound  into 
golden  sheaves  of  years,  —  all  gone  ! 

The  strength  and  pride  of  manhood  is  gone ;  your 
heart  and  soul  have  stamped  their  deepest  dye ;  the 
time  of  power  is  past ;  your  manliness  has  told  its  tale  ; 
henceforth  your  career  is  down;  —  hitherto  you  have 
journeyed  up.  You  look  back  upon  a  decade  as  you 
once  looked  upon  a  half  score  of  months ;  a  year  has 
become  to  your  slackened  memory,  and  to  your  dull 
perceptions,  like  a  week  of  childhood.  Suddenly  and 
swiftly  come  past  you  great  whirls  of  gone-by  thought, 
and  wrecks  of  vain  labor,  eddying  upon  the  stream  that 
rushes  to  the  grave.  The  sweeping  outlines  of  life, 
that  lay  once  before  the  vision,  —  rolling  into  wide 
billows  of  years,  like  easy  lifts  of  a  broad  mountain- 
range,  —  now  seem  close-packed  together  as  with  a 
Titan  hand,  and  you  see  only  crowded,  craggy  heights, 
• —  like  Alpine  fastnesses, —  parted  with  glaciers  of  grief, 
and  leaking  abundant  tears ! 

Your  friends  are  gone ;  they  who  counselled  and 
advised  you,  and  who  protected  your  weakness,  will 
guard  it  no  more  forever.  One  by  one  they  have 
dropped  away  as  you  have  journeyed  on  ;  and  yet  your 
journey  does  not  seem  a  long  one.  Life  at  the  longest 
is  but  a  bubble  that  bursts  so  soon  as  it  is  rounded. 


WHAT  IS   GONE.  245 

Nelly  —  your  sweet  sister,  to  whom  your  heart  clung 
so  fondly  in  the  young  days,  and  to  whom  it  has  clung 
ever  since  in  the  strongest  bonds  of  companionship  — 
is  gone  —  with  the  rest ! 

Your  thought  —  wayward  now,  and  flickering  ■ —  runs 
over  the  old  days  with  quick  and  fevered  step  ;  it  brings 
back,  faintly  as  it  may,  the  noisy  joys,  and  the  safety, 
that  belonged  to  the  old  garret-roof;  it  figures  again 
the  image  of  that  calm-faced  father,  — long  since  sleep- 
ing beside  your  mother  ;  it  rests  like  a  shadow  upon  the 
night  when  Charlie  died  ;  it  grasps  the  old  figures  of 
the  school-room,  and  kindles  again  (how  strange  is 
memorj')  the  fire  that  shed  its  lustre  upon  the  curtains, 
and  the  ceiling,  as  you  lay  groaning  with  your  first 
hours  of  sickness. 

Your  flitting  recollection  brings  back  with  gushes  of 
exultation  the  figure  of  that  little,  blue-eyed  hoiden,  — 
Madge,  —  as  she  came  with  her  work  to  pass  the  long 
evenings  with  Nelly ;  it  calls  again  the  shy  glances  that 
you  cast  upon  her,  and  your  naive  ignorance  of  all  the 
little  counter-play  that  might  well  have  passed  between 
Frank  and  Nelly.  Your  mother's  form  too,  clear  and 
distinct,  comes  upon  the  wave  of  your  rocking  thought ; 
her  smile  touches  you  now  in  age  as  it  never  touched 
you  in  boyhood. 

The  image  of  that  fair  Miss  Dalton,  who  led  your 
fancy  into  such  mad  captivity,  glides  across  your  vision 


246     ,  DREAM-LIFE. 

like  tlie  fragment  of  a  crazy  dream  long  gone  by. 
The  country  home,  where  lived  the  grandfather  of 
Frank,  gleams  kindly  in  the  sunlight  of  your  memory  ; 
and  still,  —  poor,  blind  Fanny  —  long  since  gathered  to 
that  rest  where  her  closed  eyes  will  open  upon  visions 
of  joy  —  draws  forth  a  sigh  of  pity. 

Then  comes  up  that  sweetest  and  brightest  vision  of 
love,  and  the  doubt  and  care  which  ran  before  it,  — 
when  your  hope  groped  eagerly  through  your  pride 
and  worldliness  toward  the  sainted  purity  of  her  whom 
you  know  to  be  —  all  too  good,  —  when  you  trembled 
at  the  thought  of  your  own  vices  and  blackness  in 
the  presence  of  her  who  seemed  virtue's  self  And 
even  now  your  old  heart  bounds  with  joy  as  you  recall 
the  first  timid  assurance  that  you  were  blessed  in  the 
possession  of  her  love,  and  that  you  might  live  in  her 
smiles. 

Your  thought  runs  like  floating  melody  over  the  calm 
joy  that  followed  you  through  so  many  years,  —  to  the 
prattling  children,  who  were  there  to  bless  your  patKT 
How  poor  seem  now  your  transports,  as  you  met  their 
childish  embraces,  and  mingled  in  their  childish  em- 
ploy ;  how  utterly  weak  the  actual,  when  compared  with 
that  glow  of  affection  which  memory  lends  to  the 
scene ! 

Yet  all  this  is  gone ;  and  the  anxieties  are  gone, 
which  knit  your  heart  so  strongly  to  those  children,  and 


WHAT  IS   GONE.  247 

to  her  —  the  mother, —  anxieties  which  distressed  you,— 
"which  you  would  eagerly  have  shunned,  yet  whose 
memoi'y  you  would  not  now  bargain  away  for  a  king's 
ransom  !  What  were  the  sunlight  worth,  if  clouds  did 
not  sometimes  hide  its  brightness ;  what  were  the 
spring,  or  the  summer,  if  the  lessons  of  the  chilling 
winter  did  not  teach  us  the  story  of  their  warmth  ? 

The  days  are  gone  too,  in  which  you  may  have  lin- 
gered under  the  sweet  suns  of  Italy,  —  with  the  cher- 
ished one  beside  you,  and  the  eager  children,  learning 
new  prattle  in  the  soft  language  of  those  Eastern  lands. 
The  evenings  are  gone,  in  which  you  loitered  under  the 
trees  with  those  dear  ones  under  the  light  of  a  harvest- 
moon,  and  talked  of  your  blooming  hopes,  and  of  the 
stirring  plans  of  your  manhood.  There  are  no  more 
ambitious  hopes,  no  more  sturdy  plans  !  Life's  work 
has  rounded  into  the  evening  that  shortens  labor. 

And  as  you  loiter  in  dreams  over  the  wide  waste  of 
what  is  gone,  —  a  mingled  array  of  griefs  and  of  joys, 
of  failm-es  and  of  triumphs, —  you  bless  God  that  there 
has  been  so  much  of  joy  belonging  to  your  shattered 
life  ;  and  you  pray  God,  with  the  vain  fondness  that 
belongs  to  a  parent's  heart,  that  more  of  joy,  and  less 
of  toil,  may  come  near  to  the  cherished  ones  who  bear 
up  your  hope  and  name. 

And  with  your  silent  prayer  come  back  the  old 
teachings,  and  vagaries  of  the  boyish  heart  in  its  reaches 


248  DREAM-LIFE. 

toward  Heaven.  .  You  recall  the  old  church-reckoning 
of  your  goodness :  is  there  much  more  of  it  now  than 
then  ?  Is  not  Heaven  just  as  high,  and  the  world  as 
sadly  broad? 

Alas,  for  the  poor  tale  of  goodness  which  age  brings 
to  the  memory  !  There  may  be  crowning  acts  of  benev- 
olence, shining  here  and  there  ;  but  the  margin  of  what 
has  not  been  done  is  very  broad.  How  weak  and  insig- 
nificant seems  the  story  of  life's  goodness  and  profit, 
when  Death  begins  to  slant  his  shadow  upon  our  souls  ! 
How  infinite  in  the  comparison  seems  that  Eternal  good- 
ness which  is  crowned  with  mercy.  How  self  vanishes, 
like  a  blasted  thing,  and  only  lives  —  if  it  lives  at  all  — 
in  the  glow  of  that  redeemins:  lio-ht  which  radiates  from 
the  Cross  and  the  Throne  ! 


II. 

What  is  Left. 

lUT  much  as  tliere  is  gone  of  life,  and  of  its  joys, 
very  much  remains,  —  very  much  in  earnest,  and 
very  much  more  in  hope.  Still  you  see  visions,  and 
you  dream  di'eams,  of  the  times  that  are  to  come. 

Your  home  and  heart  are  left :  within  that  home,  the 
old  Bible  holds  its  wonted  place,  which  was  the  monitor 
of  your  boyhood  ;  and  now,  more  than  ever,  it  prompts 
those  reverent  reaches  of  the  spirit,  which  go  beyond 
even  the  track  of  dreams. 

That  cherished  Madge,  the  partner  of  your  life  and 
joy,  still  lingers,  though  her  step  is  feeble,  and  her 
eyes  are  dimmed  ;  —  not  as  once  attracting  you  by  any 
outward  show  of  beauty ;  your  heart,  glowing  through 
the  memory  of  a  life  of  joy,  needs  no  such  stimulant 
to  the  affections.  Your  hearts  are  knit  together  by  a 
habit  of  growth,  and  a  unanimity  of  desire.  There  is 
less  to  remind  of  the  vanities  of  earth,  and  more  to 
quicken  the  hopes  of  a  time  when  body  yields  to  spirit. 

Your  own  poor,  battered  hulk  wants  no  jaunty- 
trimmed  craft  for  consort ;  but  twin  of  heart  and  soul, 
11* 


250  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  you  are  twin  of  years,  you  float  tranquilly  toward 
that  haven  which  lies  before  us  all. 

Your  children,  now  almost  verging  on  maturity,  bless 
your  hearth  and  home.  Not  one  is  gone.  Frank  in- 
deed —  that  wild  fellow  of  a  youth,  who  has  wrought 
your  heart  into  perplexing  anxieties  again  and  again,  as 
you  have  seen  the  wayward  dashes  of  his  young  blood  — 
is  often  away.  But  his  heart  yet  centres  where  yours 
centres ;  and  his  absence  is  only  a  nearer  and  bolder 
strife  with  that  fierce  world  whose  circumstances  every 
man  of  force  and  energy  is  born  to  conquer. 

His  return  from  time  to  time  with  that  proud  figure 
of  opening  manliness,  and  that  full  flush  of  health, 
speaks  to  your  affections  as  you  could  never  have  be- 
lieved it  would.  It  is  not  for  a  man,  who  is  the  father 
of  a  man,  to  show  any  weakness  of  the  heart,  or  any 
over-sensitiveness,  in  those  ties  which  bind  him  to  his 
kin.  And  yet  —  yet,  as  you  sit  by  your  fireside,  with  your 
clear,  gray  eye  feasting  in  its  feebleness  on  that  proud 
figure  of  a  man  who  calls  you  "  father," —  and  as  you  see 
his  fond  and  loving  attentions  to  that  one  who  has  been 
your  partner  in  all  anxieties  and  joys,  there  is  a  throb- 
bing within  your  bosom  that  makes  you  almost  wish 
him  young  again,  —  that  you  might  embrace  him  now, 
as  when  he  warbled  in  your  rejoicing  ear  those  first 
words  of  love !  —  Ah,  how  little  does  a  son  know  the 
secret  and  craving  tenderness  of  a  parent,  —  how  little 


WHAT  IS  LEFT.  251 

conception  has  he  of  those  silent  bursts  of  fondness  and 
of  joy  which  attend  his  coming,  and  wlaich  crown  his 
parting ! 

Tliere  is  young  Madge  too,  —  dark-eyed,  tall,  with  a 
pensive  shadow  resting  on  her  face,  —  the  very  image 
of  refinement  and  of  delicacy.  She  is  thoughtful;  — 
not  breaking  out,  like  the  hoiden,  flax-haired  Nelly, 
into  bursts  of  joy  and  singing,  —  but  stealing  upon 
your  heart  with  a  gentle  and  quiet  tenderness  that 
diffuses  itself  throughout  the  household  like  a  soft 
zephyr  of  summer. 

There  are  friends  too  yet  left,  who  come  in  upon 
your  evening  hours,  and  light  up  the  loitering  time  with 
dreamy  story  of  the  years  that  are  gone.  How  eagerly 
you  listen  to  some  gossiping  veteran  friend,  who  with 
his  deft  words  calls  up  the  thread  of  some  by-gone 
years  of  life;  and  with  what  a  careless,  yet  grateful 
recognition  you  lapse,  as  it  were,  into  the  current 
of  the  past,  and  live  over  again  by  your  hospitable 
blaze  the  stir,  the  joy,  and  the  pride  of  your  lost  man- 
hood. 

The  children  of  friends  too  have  grown  upon  your 
march,  and  come  to  welcome  you  with  that  reverent 
deference  which  always  touches  the  heart  of  age.  That 
wild  boy  Will,  —  the  son  of  a  dear  friend,  —  who  but 
a  little  while  ago*  was  worrying  you  with  his  boyish 
pranks,  has  now  shot  up  into  tall  and  gracefhl  youth, 


252  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  evening  after  evening  finds  him  making  part  of 
your  little  household  group. 

Does  the  fond  old  man  think  that  he  is  all  the 

attraction  ! 

It  may  be  that  in  your  dreamy  speculations  about  the 
future  of  your  children,  (for  still  you  dream,)  you  think 
that  Will  may  possibly  become  the  husband  of  the 
sedate  and  kindly  Madge.  It  worries  you  to  find  Nelly 
teasing  him  as  she  does;  that  mad  hoiden  will  never 
be  quiet ;  she  provokes  you  excessively :  and  yet  she  is 
a  dear  creature ;  there  is  no  meeting  those  laughing 
blue  eyes  of  hers  without  a  smile  and  an  embrace ! 

It  pleases  you  however  to  see  the  winning  frankness 
with  which  Madge  always  receives  "Will.  And  with  a 
little  of  your  old  vanity  of  observation  you  trace  out 
the  growth  of  their  dawning  attachment.  It  provokes 
you  to  find  Nelly  breaking  up  their  quiet  iete-a-tetes 
with  her  provoking  sallies,  and  drawing  away  "Will  to 
some  saunter  in  the  garden,  or  to  some  mad  gallop  over 
the  hills. 

At  length  upon  a  certain  summer's  day  "Will  asks  to 
see  you.  He  approaches  with  a  doubtful  and  dis- 
turbed look  ;  you  fear  that  wild  Nell  has  been  teasing 
him  with  her  pranks.  Yet  he  wears  not  so  much  an 
offended  look  as  one  of  fear.  You  wonder  if  it  ever 
happened  to  you  to  carry  your  hat  in  just  that  timid 
manner,  and  to  wear  such  a  shifting  expression  of  the 


WHAT  IS  LEFT.  253 

eye,  as  poor  Will  wears  just  now  ?  You  wonder  if  it 
ever  happened  to  you  to  begin  to  talk  with  an  old 
friend  of  your  father's  in  just  that  abashed  way  ?  Will 
must  have  fallen  into  some  sad  scrape.  —  Well,  he  is  a 
good  fellow,  and  yoi?will  help  him  out  of  it ! 

You  look  up  as  he  goes  on  with  his  story ;  —  you 
grow  perplexed  yourself ;  —  you  scarce  believe  your 
own  ears. 

"  Nelly  ?  "  —  Is  Will  talking  of  Nelly  ? 

«  Yes,  sir,  —  Nelly." 

"  What !  —  and  you  have  told  all  this  to  Nelly 

-r-  that  you  love  her  ?  " 

« I  have,  sir." 

"And  she  says"  — 

"  That  I  must  speak  with  you,  sir." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  —  But  she 's  a  good  girl ; "  —  and 
the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes. 

"  Nell !  —  are  you  there  ?  " 

And  she  comes,  —  blushing,  lingering,  yet  smiling 
through  it  all, 

"  And  you  could  deceive  your  old  father,  Nell  " 

—  (very  fondly.) 

Nelly  only  clasps  your  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  And  so  you  loved  Will  all  the  while  ?  " 

Nelly  only  stoops  to  drop  a  little  kiss  of  plead- 

"ng  on  your  forehead. 

"Well,  Nelly,"  (it  is  hard  to  speak  roundly,) 


254  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  give  me  your  hand ;  —  here,  Will,  —  take  it :  —  she 's 
a  wild  girl ;  —  be  kind  to  her,  Will." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir  ! " 

And  Nelly  throws  herself,  sobbing,  upon  your  bosom. 

"  Not   here,  —  not   here   now,  Nell !  —  Will  is 

yonder ! " 

Sobbing,  sobbing  still !     Nelly,  Nelly,  —  who 

would  have  thought  that  your  merry  face  covered  such 
a  heart  of  tenderness ! 


in. 

Grrief  and  Joy  of  Age. 

rriHE  Winter  has  its  piercing  storms,  —  even  as 
-*-  Autumn  hath.  Hoary  age,  crowned  with  honor 
and  with  years,  bears  no  immunity  from  suffering.  It 
is  the  common  heritage  of  us  all :  if  it  come  not  in  the 
spring  or  in  the  summer  of  our  day,  it  will  surely  find 
us  in  the  autumn,  or  amid  the  frosts  of  winter.  It  is 
the  penalty  humanity  pays  for  pleasure;  human  joys 
will  have  their  balance.  Nature  never  makes  false 
weight.  The  east  wind  is  followed  by  a  wind  from  the 
west ;  and  every  smile  will  have  its  equivalent  in  a 
tear! 

You  have  lived  long  and  joyously  with  that  dear  one 
who  has  made  your  life  a  holy  pilgrimage.  She  has 
seemed  to  lead  you  into  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  has 
kindled  in  you  —  as  the  damps  of  the  world  came  near 
to  extinguish  them  —  those  hopes  and  aspirations  which 
rest  not  in  life,  but  soar  to  the  realm  of  spirits. 

You  have  sometimes  shuddered  with  the  thought  of 
parting;  you  have  trembled  even  at  the  leave-taking 
of  a  year,  or  of  months,   and   have   suffered   bitterly 


256  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  some  danger  threatened  a  parting  forever.  That 
danger  threatens  now.  Nor  is  it  a  sudden  fear  to 
startle  you  into  a  paroxysm  of  dread  :  nothing  of  this. 
Nature  is  kinder,  —  or  she  is  less  kind. 

It  is  a  slow  and  certain  approach  of  danger  which 
you  read  in  the  feeble  step,  —  in  the  wan  eye,  lighting 
up  from  time  to  time  into  a  brightness  that -seems  no 
longer  of  this  world.  You  read  it  in  the  new  and 
ceaseless  attentions  of  the  fond  child,  who  yet  blesses 
your  home,  and  who  conceals  from  you  the  bitterness 
of  the  coming  grief 

Frank  is  away  —  over-seas  ;  and  as  the  mother  men- 
tions that  name  with  a  tremor  of  love  and  of  regret, 
that  he  is  not  now  with  you  all,  —  you  recall  that  other 
death,  when  you  too  were  not  there.  Then,  you 
knew  little  of  a  parent's  feeling ;  now,  its  intensity 
is  present ! 

Day  after  day,  as  summer  passes,  she  is  ripening  for 
that  world  where  her  faith  and  her  hope  have  so  long 
lived.  Her  pressm-e  of  your  hand  at  some  casual  part- 
ing for  a  day  is  full  of  a  gentle  warning,  as  if  she 
said,  —  prepare  for  a  longer  adieu ! 

Her  language,  too,  without  direct  mention  steeps 
your  thought  in  the  bitter  certainty  that  she  foresees 
her  approaching  doom,  and  that  she  dreads  it  only  so 
far  as  she  dreads  the  grief  that  will  be  left  in  her 
broken  home.    Madge  —  the  daughter  —glides  through 


GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  AGE.  257 

the  duties  of  that  household  like  an  angel  of  mercy : 
she  lingers  at  the  sick-bed,  —  blessing,  and  taking  bless- 
ings. 

The  sun  shines  warmly  without,  and  through  the 
open  casement  beats  warmly  upon  the  floor  within. 
The  birds  sing  in  the  joyousness  of  full-robed  summer ; 
the  drowsy  hum  of  the  bees,  stealing  sweets  from  the 
honeysuckle  that  bowers  the  window,  lulls  the  air  to  a 
gentle  quiet.  Her  breathing  scarce  breaks  the  sum- 
mer stillness.  Yet,  she  knows  it  is  nearly  over.  Madge, 
too,  —  with  features  saddened,  yet  struggling  against 
grief,  —  feels  —  that  it  is  nearly  over. 

It  is  very  hard  to  think  it;  how  nuich  harder  to 
know  it !  But  there  is  no  mistaking  her  look  now  — 
so  placid,  so  gentle,  so  resigned !  And  her  grasp  of 
your  hand  —  so  warm  —  so  full  of  meaning  ! 

"  Madge,  Madge,  must  it  be  ?  "     And  a  pleasant 

smile  lights  her  eye;  and  her  grasp  is  warmer;  and 
her  look  is  —  upward  ! 

"  Must  it  —  must  it  be,   dear  Madge  ?  "  —  A 

holier  smile,  —  loftier,  — lit  up  of  angels,  beams  on  her 
faded  features.  The  hand  relaxes  its  clasp,  and  you 
cling  to  it  faster  —  harder, — joined  close  to  the  frail 
wreck  of  your  love, — joined  tightly  —  but  oh,  how  far 
apart ! 

She  is  in  Heaven  ;  —  and  you,  struggling  against  the 
grief  of  a  lorn,  old  man ! 


258  DREAM-LIFE. 

But  sorrow,  however  great  it  be,  must  be  subdued  in 
the  presence  of  a  child.  Its  fevered  outbursts  must  be 
kept  for  those  silent  hours  when  no  young  eyes  are 
watching,  and  no  young  hearts  will  "  catch  the  trick  of 
grief" 

When  the  household  is  quiet  and  darkened,  —  when 
Madge  is  away  from  you,  and  your  boy  Frank  slumber- 
ing —  as  youth  slumbers  upon  sorrow,  —  when  you  are 
alone  with  God  and  the  night,  —  in  that  room  so  long 
hallowed  by  her  presence,  but  now — deserted —  silent, 
—  then  you  may  yield  yourself  to  such  frenzy  of  tears 
as  your  strength  will  let  you!  And  in  your  solitary 
rambles  through  the  churchyard  you  can  loiter  of  a 
summer's  noon  over  her  fresh-made  grave,  and  let  your 
pent  heart  speak,  and  your  spirit  lean  toward  the  Rest 
where  her  love  has  led  you! 

Thornton,  the  clergyman,  whose  prayer  over  the 
dead  has  dwelt  with  jou,  comes  from  time  to  time  to 
light  up  your  solitary  hearth  with  his  talk  of  the  Rest 
for  all  men.  He  is  young,  but  his  earnest  and  gentle 
speech  win  their  way  to  your  heart,  and  to  your  under- 
standing. You  love  his  counsels ,  you  make  of  him  a 
friend,  whose  visits  are  long  and  often  repeated. 

Frank  only  lingers  for  a  while ;  and  you  bid  him 
again  —  adieu.  It  seems  to  you  that  it  may  well  be 
the  last ;  and  your  blessing  trembles  on  your  lip.  Yet 
you  look  not  with  dread,  but  rather  with  a  firm  trust- 


GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  AGE.  259 

fulness  toward  the  day  of  the  end.  For  your  darling 
Madge,  it  is  true,  you  have  anxieties  ;  you  fear  to  leave 
her  lonely  in  the  world  with  no  protector  save  the  way- 
ward Frank. 

It  is  later  August  when  you  call  to  Madge  one  daj 
to  bring  you  the  little  escritoire,  in  which  are  youi 
cherished  papers ;  among  them  is  your  last  will  and 
testament.  Thornton  has  just  left  you,  and  it  seems 
to  you  that  his  repeated  kindnesses  are  deserving  of 
some  substantial  mark  of  your  regard. 

"Maggie,"  you  say,  "Mr.  Thornton  has  been  very 
kind  to  me." 

"  Very  kind,  father." 

"  I  mean  to  leave  him  here  some  little  legacy,  Mag- 
gie." 

"  I  would  not,  father." 

"  But  Madge,  my  daughter  !  " 

"  He  is  not  looking  for  such  return,  father." 

"  But  he  has  been  very  kind,  Madge  ;  I  must  show 
him  some  strong  token  of  my  regard.  What  shall  it 
be,  Maggie  ?  " 

Madge  hesitates,  —  Madge  blushes,  —  Madge  stoops 
to  her  father's  ear  as  if  the  very  walls  might  catch  the 
secret  of  her  heart ;  —  "  Would  you  give  me  to  him, 
father  ?  " 

"  But  —  my  dear  Madge  —  has  he  asked  this  ?  " 


260  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  Eight  months  ago,  papa." 

"  And  you  told  him  "  — 

"  That  I  would  never  leave  you,  so  long  as  you 
lived ! " 

"My  own  dear  Madge,  —  come  to  me,  —  kiss 

me  !     And  you  love  him,  Maggie  ?  " 

«  With  all  my  heart,  sir." 

"  So   like  your  mother,  —  the  same  figure,  — 

the  same  true,  honest  heart !  It  shall  be  as  you  wish, 
dear  Madge.  Only  you  will  not  leave  me  in  my  old 
age,  —  eh,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Never,  father,  —  never," 

And   there   she   leans   upon   his  chair ;  —  her 

arm  around  the  old  man's  neck,  —  her  other  hand 
clasped  in  his,  —  and  her  eyes  melting  with  tenderness 
as  she  gazes  upon  his  aged  face,,  —  all  radiant  with  joy 
and  with  hope ! 


IV. 

The  End  of  Breams. 

A  FEEBLE  old  man,  and  a  young  lady  who  is  just 
now  blooming  into  the  maturity  of  womanhood, 
are  toiling  up  a  gentle  slope,  where  the  spring  sun  lies 
warmly.  The  old  man  totters,  though  he  leans  heavily 
upon  his  cane ;  and  he  pants  as  he  seats  himself  upon 
a  mossy  rock  that  crowns  the  summit  of  the  slope. 
As  he  recovers  breath,  he  draws  the  hand  of  the  lady 
in  his,  and  with  a  trembling  eagerness  he  points  out  an 
old  mansion  that  lies  below  under  the  shadow  of  tall 
sycamores  ;  and  he  says,  —  feebly  and  brokenly,  — 
"  That  is  it,  Maggie,  —  the  old  home  —  the  syca- 
mores —  the  garret  —  Charlie  —  Nelly  "  — 

The  old  man  wipes  his  eyes.  Then  his  hand  shifts : 
he  seems  groping  in  darkness ;  but  soon  it  rests  upon  a 
little  cottage  below,  heavily  overshadowed. 

"  That  was  it,  Maggie  ;  —  Madge  lived  there  —  sweet 
Madge  —  your  mother  "  — 

Again  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes,  and  the  lady  turns 
away. 

Presently  they  walk  down  the  hill  together.    They 


262  DREAM-LIFE. 

cross  a  little  valley  Avdth  slow,  faltering  steps.  The  lady 
guides  him  carefully,  until  they  reach  a  little  grave- 
yard. 

"  This  must  be  it,  Maggie,  but  the  fence  is  new. 
There  it  is,  Maggie,  under  the  willow,  —  my  poor 
mother's  grave ! " 

The  lady  weeps. 

"  Thank  you,  Madge  ;  you  did  not  know  her,  but  you 
weep  for  me.     God  bless  you ! " 

The  old  man  is  in  the  midst  of  his  household.  It  is 
some  festive  day.  He  holds  feebly  his  place  at  the 
head  of  the  board.  He  utters  in  feeble  tones  —  a 
Thanksgiving. 

His  married  Nelly  is  there  with  two  blooming  chil- 
dren. Frank  is  there  with  his  bride.  Madge  —  dearest 
of  all  —  is  seated  beside  the  old  man,  watchful  of  his 
comfort,  and  assisting  him  as  with  a  shadowy  dignity 
he  essays  to  do  the  honors  of  the  board.  The  children 
prattle  merrily :  the  elder  ones  talk  of  the  days  gone 
by ;  and  the  old  man  enters  feebly,  yet  with  floating 
glimpses  of  glee,  into  the  cheer  and  the  rejoicings. 

Poor  old  man,  he  is  near  his  tomb !     Yet  his 

calm  eye,  looking  upward,  seems  to  show  no  fear. 

The  same  old  man  is  in  his  chamber:  he  cannot 
leave  his  chair  now.     Madge  is  beside  him  ;  Nelly  is 


THE  END   OF  DREAMS.  263 

there  too  with  her  eldest-born.  Madge  has  been  read- 
ing to  the  old  man :  it  was  a  passage  of  promise  —  of 
the  Bible  promise. 

"  A  glorious  promise ! "  says  the  old  man,  feebly ;  — 
"  a  promise  to  me,  —  a  promise  to  her,  poor  Madge  ! " 

"  Is  her  picture  there,  Maggie  ?  " 

Madge  brings  it  to  him  :  he  turns  his  head ;  but  the 
light  is  not  strong.  They  wheel  his  chair  to  the  win- 
dow. The  sun  is  shining  brightly :  still  the  old  man 
cannot  see. 

"  It  is  getting  dark;  INIaggie." 

Madge  looks  at  Nelly  —  wistfully  —  sadly. 

The  old  man  murmurs  something;  and  Madge 
stoops.  —  "  Coming,"  he  says,  —  "  coming  !  " 

Nelly  brings  the  little  child  to  take  his  hand.  Per- 
haps it  will  revive  him.  She  lifts  her  boy  to  kiss  his 
cheek. 

The  old  man  does  not  stir :  his  eyes  do  not  move  : 
they  seem  fixed  above.  The  child  cries  as  his  lii3S 
touch  the  cold  cheek.  —  It  is  a  tender  Spring  flower 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  dying  Winter  ! 

The  old  man  is  gone :  his  dream-life  is  ended. 


THE  END. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER.  A.  C.  ARMSTRONG.  \.  J.  PEABODV. 


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Living  Orators  in  America   ....         1        /2mo       I   75         72 
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Reveries  of  a  Bachelor i  i2mo  i  75 

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(Esop's  Fables    . 
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